Little Differences
by Theta Serpentis
Summary: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. From a few hours before his birth to the end of his eleventh birthday, this is the life Tom Marvolo Riddle.
1. Birth: December 31st, 1926

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter One: Birth**

The bitter cold of December seeped into her thin body as she stumbled down the empty street. She pulled her shawl around her front in a futile attempt to protect her swollen belly from the winter winds. Somewhere, a clock tolled the tenth hour.

Her child decided that this was a good time to make his presence known again. Not that he was exactly forgettable – she thought, rubbing her protruding belly – it was, after all, for his sake that she continued to search for some adequate shelter for the night the only reason she hadn't given up when her husband had left her. A wry smile spread across her face; in spite of everything her husband had done, the cruel words with which he'd left her, she still wanted, still needed, their baby to be a boy. Before Tom had left – when she'd learned she was pregnant – she had imagined what her family's future would be like. She'd daydreamed about standing on a white beach, watching her husband lift a laughing boy, swinging him around, the boy's blue cardigan matching the clear blue sky, the wind mussing his black hair. He'd be a little version of his father, his large deep-sea-blue eyes shining with delight, giggling in his father's arms as the waves splashed his father's legs. He'd look over his father's shoulder, smiling at her. She'd only been to the beach once – Tom had taken her to one for their honeymoon, and it was that beach she imagined them at. Father and son – so perfectly happy together and though she now knew that she could never be a part of that picture, a small part of her still hoped that someday Tom would go looking for his child, that her vision of her husband and son together could still be.

The baby kicked her insides again, and she – in her fatigue – leaned upon the tall gates she had stopped by. She pulled her shawl closer to her, and her eyes closed from sheer relief at the momentary support. It seemed to her an eternity passed before she pulled away, locks of her lank hair clinging to the metal poles.

She shuddered and turned away from the street as a cold gust whipped at her, blowing snowflakes into her face and she curled in on herself as much as she could. Biting her lip, she tried not to cry; she missed her husband, her home, feeling warm. But mostly, she missed the security she'd felt when she'd believed her baby would grow up in a warm, loving home. It was only when a tear fell on her hand (which had taken to rubbing her swollen midsection) that she realised she was crying – crying for her child, for her fears, her lost hope and broken dreams.

She shuddered: she was so cold, and tired, and sore. Her back hurt more than it ever had before, and her belly kept cramping. Worst of all it was snowing. She wiped away her tears as a new wave of terror overtook her: she didn't want to give birth on the street. To do so would be both suicide and murder.

But it was when she looked up that she realised her luck had changed slightly since she stumbled off Fentiman Road. The tall gates she had stopped in front of had a metal arch above them, bearing the words '_Vauxhall Road Orphanage'_ in old, slightly rusted, iron letters. If she had been asked at that moment, she would have said the words could not have expressed her relief. Eagerly, she began to push the gate.

It didn't budge. It did, however, make a loud metallic noise, and she – realising it was locked – paled.

The doorbell, she thought suddenly, she had to find the doorbell. Her husband had told her about doorbells before he'd left she'd always thought it was silly of the muggles to continue calling them doorbells when they were often strings on gates or the like. But now, the doorbell might be her salvation. It was ironic, really, that such a small thing could be so important. When her hand finally closed around it she yanked so hard it was almost ripped off.

A light flooded the courtyard as the front door was thrown open, and a figure rushed down the steps toward the gate. The sound of keys jangling in the figure's hand was lost beneath the howling wind. It wasn't until the sharply featured young woman from the orphanage had unlocked the gates that Merope realised she had begun to shake again.

The young woman looked absolutely flabbergasted when she pulled open the gate, ushering Merope inside, evidently she was not used to heavily pregnant women turning up at the gate in the middle of the night. Her eyes narrowed when Merope gasped and wrapped her arms around her belly.

"Labour pains," the young woman muttered, as she helped the staggering Merope up the stone steps. Taking her shaking hand, the young woman led Merope into the old stone building.

Two women came out of the first door on the left. The first, a round faced woman with thick grey hair, opened her mouth to speak. But the second – a pretty young brunette, who couldn't be more than a handful of years older than Merope herself – was quicker. "What are you waiting for, Eleanor?" she snapped. "The infirmary: _now_."

Without waiting for an answer, the young brunette rushed down the corridor leaving the round faced woman and Eleanor to help Merope along the hallway and up two flights of stone stairs.

The minor look of surprise that crossed both of the women's faces as the three were ushered into the first door on the left did not go unnoticed by Merope, though she could not understand why they were so surprised. Nor could Merope understand why the brunette had shaken her head when Eleanor jerked her head in the direction of the next door down.

"Put her on the bed," snapped the pretty woman, as she shoved a large, old white shirt into the older woman's hands, "and for god's sake, have her change into this! Those rags are dirtier than little Johnny Smith on a good day."

Eleanor giggled at this, but a pair of sharp glares from the other two quickly silenced her. The oldest woman smiled at Merope and she winced, a hand resting on her belly, feeling the contractions getting stronger.

"Now then, dear," said the grey-haired woman, "you just put this on – you really oughtn't wear that old dress any longer – then pop yourself onto the bed, we'll just be in the next room." She nodded to the second door in the small room. "So just call out when you've changed." With that, she hurried Eleanor out – the other, rude, woman having already left – leaving Merope alone in the small bedroom.

She changed quickly then clambered onto the bed. Unsure of what to do with her old dress, she clutched it as she called out to tell the orphanage workers she'd changed.

Only the eldest two returned; both wearing aprons, their arms filled. The brunette paid Merope seemingly no attention, muttering to herself darkly, but the grey-haired woman gently smiled. "Now dear, why don't you give me that?" She pulled the dress from Merope.

The pretty woman snorted. "Let her keep it – it'll give her something to hold while she's squealing."

Merope paled as the youngest woman entered, carrying a pile of towels and a bottle of gin.

The grey-hair woman glared. "Eleanor!"

"Concentrate on the patient, Samantha. I told Eleanor to bring the gin. We may have need of it," said the pretty woman.

A sharp gasp from Merope brought Samantha's attention back to her. Samantha brushed a lock of grey hair away from her face. "Now dear, I'm the matron Samantha Cole." She pointed to the young, sharp-faced woman. "That is my future daughter in law Eleanor, and Martha," she continued nodding to the pretty woman "is our doctor." The old muggle woman completely misunderstood Merope's panicked look because she went on to say that Martha was as good a doctor as any male.

Merope shook her head; she didn't want a doctor – Morfin had told her about them. He'd said that doctors were the muggle equivalent of Healers, but that (instead of taking care of people) it was the doctor's job to gut them, like he did with the snakes he hung on the door. Her Tom had mentioned doctors too. On the night she'd told him she was pregnant (the night he left her) he'd begun ranting and raving about how he didn't want a child because he'd always be the one who would have to take it to the doctor's to get shot. She knew what shot was, it was what Tom did to animals with his gun whenever they went to the country.

"Don't waste your breath, Mrs. Cole, or our time. She won't understand, she's a gutter rat – probably doesn't even know what a doctor is," Martha said, moving to check Merope's blood pressure. Martha paused, looking down at Merope. "I'm here to help you, you imbecile," she added. "So stop hyperventilating. I'm not going to hurt you." She then moved on to check the baby's position, pursing her lips at Merope's small hips. As Merope felt another contraction, Martha's eyes widened as she paled. "Don't push yet, pant it out," she snapped.

Martha whirled around to face Eleanor. "Go get a birth certificate; I want the information taken down now." She then turned back to Merope. "Has your water broken yet?"

Merope shook her head, and Martha paled further. Merope looked at her with wide eyes, this woman evidently knew what she was doing, but she was beginning to scare her: the look on Martha's face may not have shown much, but the look in her eyes was all too clear. It terrified Merope far more than her father and brother ever had.

"Check the cervix," Martha said to Mrs. Cole. Merope began to sit up, but Martha pushed her back down starting to feel her swollen belly. Suddenly, she stopped going white as a sheet. Ignoring Merope, she turned to Samantha, who looked up smiling.

"She should be able to start pushing soon," Samantha said.

Unsure of what had disturbed the doctor so, Merope looked between the two women – one's smile fading, the other stony faced – and began to cry quietly as the silence dragged on.

Martha picked up her stethoscope but only said, "It's breech," before turning her attention to Merope's midsection, listening carefully.

"M-Mrs. Cole, what does that m-mean?" Merope whispered fearfully.

Eleanor came back, clutching a piece of paper in her hand so tight that her knuckles were deathly white.

Mrs Samantha Cole tried to smile. "It means that you've just got to keep panting it out a little longer, dear."

Martha stood, with the ghost of a smile on her lips, and removed her stethoscope. "The baby has a heart beat. We just need to turn it."

"T-turn it?" whispered Merope.

"Don't worry, dear, it's not dangerous," Samantha said. "We just have to make sure the baby will come out the right way."

* * *

The clock kept ticking: it was really starting to drive her mad. Martha winced, the girl – a Mrs. Riddle, apparently – was still panicking. Or rather, her uterus was. It was hardly surprising, if you though about it logically, the girl didn't really understand what was happening. In fact, Martha thought, as she tried once more to check for the baby's heartbeat, if the stupid girl had comprehended that there wasn't really that much danger involved in turning the baby, they wouldn't be having this problem.

_Tick-tock,_ said the clock.

Martha gritted her teeth the heartbeat was getting fainter and the baby hadn't moved at all. With a snarl, she stood.

Eleanor looked at her, baffled – her attention had been on getting the information for the birth certificate. "What's wrong?"

"'What's not wrong?' would be a more accurate question" Martha muttered.

From the bed, Mrs. Riddle gave an anguished sob.

_Tick-tock_, said the clock.

Martha whirled around, still clutching the stethoscope, "Oh shut up!"

"Martha!" Mrs. Cole cried. Mrs. Riddle whimpered. With a glare at Martha Mrs. Cole returned her attentions to the patient, "There, there, dear. You just need to rest a little. The baby won't come unless you get a bit of rest, and little pushes just aren't going to be enough. So you just-"

"Stop mollycoddling her, Samantha, it's not working," Martha snarled.

"I hope he looks like his papa!" Mrs. Riddle gasped out. Behind her, Eleanor sniggered.

Martha offered her the stethoscope. "That's nice dear, but it would be better if you concentrated on the matter at hand, namely saving your infant's life."

_Tick-tock,_ said the clock.

"Martha stop antagonizing her!"

Martha flinched. Was the clock getting louder, she wondered. She frowned at the patient; the girl didn't have the energy to keep going, and the previously spastic contractions had faded to non-existence. Heck, they'd even gotten the girl off the bed and crouching in an attempt to make gravity do the work, clearly just giving the girl a command to rest wouldn't help. Martha pushed the stethoscope into the girl's hands "Calm down," she said. "You saw what I did with that," she said, pointing to the stethoscope, "earlier, correct?" Martha felt a wave of relief crash over her when the girl nodded. The girl was, at least, not totally hysterical. "Good, I want you to do the same."

Mrs. Cole frowned as she watched Merope attempting to use the stethoscope. "Martha, just what do you think this will achieve?"

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Panicking won't help her." She then turned to the patient, positioning the stethoscope to pickup the sounds from where the baby's heart was the last time she checked. By the look on the girl's face, she'd got it right. After a few moments Martha removed the instrument from the girl's person. Mrs. Cole looked at her shrewdly; Martha was fairly certain that the Matron knew what she was attempting to do.

"Mrs. Riddle," said Martha. "Do correct me if I'm wrong. The sound you just heard was rather low pitched and resonant." She received a nod. "That was the sound of your baby's heart beating. That noise is going to be gone very soon if we don't assist in the birth."

Martha glanced at Mrs. Cole, who gave a small nod. Internally, Martha sighed in relief; it was good to know the Matron agreed with such drastic action. With one regretful glance at the gin bottle, Martha turned back to her patient. "Mrs. Riddle, you are too tired to deliver the baby normally, so we are left with two options: we could continue in the previous manner and hope, or – as I have decided is the best option – we can attempt to perform a Caesarean section and remove the baby directly. Unfortunately, we are not accustomed to performing surgeries, but there is not time to get you to a hospital, so we will have to make due with what we have. This is the only option by which we can be assured the child will live, however, it may be painful. Will you agree to the surgery?"

With the ever present sound of the clock in the infirmary counting down what could be the rest of the child's life, Martha found (to her surprise) that she didn't really care whether the mother said yes or no: she wasn't willing to see the infant dead for its mother's foolishness. So it was a relief to her when the tramp nodded.

_Tick-tock,_ said the clock.

* * *

Martha gingerly lifted the scalpel, looking down at her patient; somehow, she doubted the apron and gloves would be enough to keep her clean. Martha slowly dragged the scalpel through the air – plotting out in her mind where she needed to cut – then nodded to Eleanor, who quickly gave the patient the gin. Privately cursing her lack of stocked anaesthetic, Martha brought the scalpel down in a swift, precise move. The mother screamed. In this situation, Martha could hardly blame her.

Merope watched, dazed, as the doctor sliced her open. The youngest woman, Eleanor, held her still as she cried, and Merope could do nothing but watch as the doctor brought the bloody blade down again, unflinching.

The clock just kept ticking.

* * *

Martha was vaguely aware of the clock striking eleven as she pulled the infant from its mother's body. Eleanor and Samantha moved quickly to ensure the baby's health, and Martha turned from the infant the moment its umbilical cord was cut and tied. She reached to start sewing the uterus back up when she heard Eleanor behind her.

"What name goes on the birth certificate?" Eleanor asked.

"Tom," Merope gasped out, "a-after his father, Marvolo; after my father."

_Tick-tock,_ said the clock.

"Last name?"

"R-riddle… so my husband...my h-husband…"

Eleanor chuckled, "Tom Marvolo Riddle, eh? Odd name."

_Tick-tock, tick-tock._

The baby made a strange noise, Martha turned to check on him and Samantha quickly wiped the baby's mouth and nose clean. Tom opened his eyes and glared at Samantha Cole, then coughed and wrinkled his nose. The three women relaxed when they saw it, and Martha smiled weakly.

A cry of pain dragged her attention back to her patient. Unable to see the cause of her son's coughing, Mrs. Riddle had, in spite of the pain, managed to sit up in her bed. But it had not lasted long, and she had fallen back on the bed, pale and unmoving.

Martha stared at the clock; its mocking face read eleven-fifteen. The ticking noise which would not abate had been counting down the remaining time of the mother, not the child.

"Martha?"

The doctor turned to face the two women (and one baby) staring at her. The baby blinked. Large, dark eyes, Martha noted sadly, beautiful eyes – nothing like his mother's.

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

"Martha?"

Martha briefly glanced at Samantha. "You and Eleanor take care of the baby in the next room – I need to sew her up," Martha said, shaken out of her reverie. She met the Matron's gaze for a moment. "No child should have to see their mother being treated like a pincushion."

Samantha gave her a brief nod and hurried out with Eleanor and the baby Martha vaguely registered the sound of the door shutting behind them and saw the figures moving away through the glass window in the door. She glared at the clock as she checked her patient's pulse, staining the girl's wrist red. The pulse was faint, but it was there. Grabbing a washcloth, Martha attempted to wipe the blood away from the section of the patient's abdomen she needed to sew up, wondering how so much blood had come out of the girl.

She pursed her lips; the girl must have put pressure on her sliced mid-section when she tried to sit up. It was the only way she could have lost so much blood so quickly.

_Tick-tock_, said the clock.

Martha flinched, casting a glance at the unconscious girl. It would be easier on her, she decided, if she weren't awake to feel it. When she made the first incision, the girl stirred. Resolutely, Martha kept repairing the gaping hole in the uterus wall steadfastly ignoring the tears forming in her patient's eyes and blocking out every gasp and sob of pain.

Once she'd finished sewing the shocked patient together again, Martha moved to her side. She couldn't deny that she did feel slightly guilty for continuing to work without giving the girl some form of pain relief when she was obviously suffering. But she only felt it as she looked at the tears running down the girl's cheeks – the only parts of her face that weren't dirt covered and that only because the tears were carving small rivers through the dirt – and looked at the girl's eyes, which were puffy and red from crying. She looked pitiful, lying there shaking and pale.

_Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_, said the clock.

Martha flinched as the clock seemed to grow louder and pulled the small table with the gin and the scalpels closer. Gently, Martha manoeuvred the girl into a half-sitting position and stripped off her gloves.

Martha opened the gin bottle and offered it to the girl. "For the pain," she murmured.

Mrs. Riddle took a tentative sip, then moved to take a larger one. Martha put a hand on her arm, holding her down. Their eyes met and Martha smiled wryly. "Giving yourself alcohol poisoning won't help, and in your condition a little could probably kill you."

The clock still seemed to be getting louder. _Tick tock,_ it cried, _tick tock._

Martha suddenly found that the look in the girl's eyes was too painful to look at, and she focused on the clock instead, releasing Merope's arm. "It's not like it matters," she murmured, "you're practically dead anyway."

To her surprise, Martha felt a small hand press against her cheek.

Mrs. Riddle looked at her sadly, as if this was old news to her. "Take care of him for me," she whispered hoarsely, before lying back down on the bed.

Martha stared at her, and, for the first time, she felt a sort of begrudging respect for the young woman next to her. "I will," she choked out, pressing a piece of metal into the girl's hand. The two women looked at each other for a moment, with Martha's hand closed around Merope's.

"I promise," Martha murmured as she moved Merope's hand across her throat.

Outside the room the baby began to scream. His timing was unearthly; it was almost as if he knew what she'd done. Martha glanced from the unmoving figure on the bed (the scalpel held loosely in one limp hand) to the droplets of blood running down the infirmary door, vaguely wondering how it had spread so far.

Tom's wailing grew louder. It was as if he knew his mother was dead.


	2. What a Baby Knows: January 1st, 1927

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Two: What a Baby Knows **

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, but when she moved to stop the mocking clock it showed that it was twelve o five. Quietly, Martha pulled the scalpel from her patient's limp hand, placing it on the small table by the bed, and closed the dead woman's eyes. Finally, after gathering the red stained towels, she pulled a thin white sheet up over the body, and left the room – locking the door to the corridor as she went.

Martha walked into her infirmary feeling slightly displaced. Silently, she placed the bloody towels into a basket, to be taken to the laundry, and locked the infirmary side door of the little bedroom. As Martha turned into the main part of the room Samantha looked up from the fussing infant she held. Martha felt her throat tighten as she shook her head.

The room's three other occupants stared at her as she washed her hands and Martha stared resolutely at her hands; watching as the water around them went from clear to pink and back to clear.

"Martha?" Mrs. Cole asked, "What happened?"

The doctor grimaced and stood slightly straighter at the washbasin, but did not turn. "She slit her throat, couldn't handle the pain."

"Oh that poor dear," said Samantha Cole, more to the infant than to anyone else, but then she looked at the doctor. "Martha, stop that! You'll scrub your skin right off."

Martha looked at her hands for a moment, then grabbed the clean towel by the washbasin. "How is the child? I'd hate to think this night was a total waste."

Eleanor glared at the baby from the other side of the room, but Samantha laughed.

Martha frowned as she walked to her desk. "Did I miss something?"

"It's a monster, not a baby," muttered Eleanor.

The matron smiled wryly, rocking the child in her arms. "Don't worry about her dear," she said, more to the baby than to Martha, "she's just upset because she was in the wrong place when we put your nappy on."

Martha raised an eyebrow at this and, leaning over her desk, began to write.

"You should have warned me! I though the head would be the safe side!" Eleanor cried. This elicited laughter from Samantha and a strange noise from Tom, who started waving a little arm around.

Martha, in spite of herself, was also beginning to smile. "Eleanor?"

"He peed on me."

The doctor actually did laugh at that and Tom, who had continued to wave his arm around, accidentally hit himself in the nose. The look of surprise on his face as he stared at his arm was so comical that all three women began to laugh.

When Martha stood, letter in hand, Tom finally decided that his arm wasn't going to sneak up on him again and returned to starring at the strange new person with the red stuff on her middle.

Martha's laughter died when she realised that the infant was starring at her blood covered apron, which she had forgotten to remove. She quickly removed it, and placed it in the basket with the others, before turning to the Matron. Tom watched all of this with wide eyes.

Mrs. Cole frowned. "Martha?"

Martha balanced the basket on her hip as she brushed a few of her brown curls back behind her ear. "The coroner needs to be informed, and we'll probably need to make funeral arrangements. Excuse me."

Baffled by this new, tall person's behaviour Tom put his thumb in his mouth. This was, however, more of an accident than anything else. Samantha Cole smiled at this. "Poor little one, this must be very confusing for you. Let's get you to bed shall we. Would you like to go beddy-byes?"

Behind her Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Really, Samantha, he's only an hour old; you can't possibly expect him to understand."

The Matron snorted, "Nonsense, Eleanor, just because he doesn't know exactly what we're saying doesn't mean we should act like he's not there."

Tom gurgled happily in response.

Eleanor smiled and allowed Tom to grasp one of her fingers in his little hands. "He doesn't look tired. You'd think that after so much trouble with being born he'd be at least a bit sleepier."

Samantha Cole frowned slightly as she stared at the baby. "Most babies aren't this active so soon after birth. It is rather odd," she murmured, "especially considering how little energy his mother had."

Tom pulled her finger into his mouth, once again seemingly more by accident than intent, and sucked on it. Eleanor glared at him. "He's slobbering on me."

"That's what babies do, Eleanor," said a voice by the door.

* * *

Martha hurried down the hall, stopping at second last door on the left. She rapped sharply on the door, and when she received no answer she threw open the door. "Jonathan? Jonathan! Wake up!"

Jonathan groaned and rolled over in his bed. "M'rtha? 'S d'middle o'th n'ght. What'zzamatter?"

"Jonathan, if you do not get up immediately I will wave a blood-soaked towel above your face _until you do_."

Jonathan bolted upright, staring at the basked of bloody laundry Martha had taken with her. "What happened? Who's hurt?"

Martha watched him impassively for a moment. She raised an eyebrow. "We have a new arrival. Get dressed." With that she dropped the basket on his bed and held out the letter she'd written in the infirmary, making no move to get out of Jonathan's way as he scrambled to get dressed.

Jonathan looked curiously at the letter as he put his shoes on. "All right, what is it?"

"I need you to take this to the police station, and I need you to do it fast. All the information they'll need is in there," Martha said.

Jonathan snatched the letter from her. "Do you think you could actually bother to tell me what's going on?"

Martha picked up the basket. "What happened is that a woman gave birth here not two hours ago, and she couldn't get the baby out. I was forced to perform a Caesarean section on her and she didn't survive it. I am now in danger of being struck of the register or _arrested_ for this."

Jonathan groaned. "Oh God, Martha, you can't be serious."

"Deadly serious, Mr. Stone. Now, the faster you get that letter to the police the less likely it is that either of those two situations will come to pass and the less likely it is that the general prejudice against female doctors helps them to do it."

"And so the Suffragette hath spoken," Jonathan muttered, rolling his eyes, but he nodded and went for the door.

"Jonathan," Martha said suddenly, and he turned back to look at her. "Sergeant Brown is an old friend of mine," she said. "You put that in his hand and no one else's. He should be there: he usually is on New Years Eve."

Jonathan Stone nodded, and hurried out of the room. After her co-worker had left Martha idly smacked the lump in the nearest bed. "Some help you were, Simon."

"Y'r w'lc'm."

* * *

Concerned that the loud voices being carried down the hall would wake her charges, Mary Bonner opened the door to the nursery and stepped out. Only to be nearly run over by Dr. Elder, who, with no regard for the fact that she had stopped across the hall from the nursery, began to bang loudly on the door of a staff bedroom. Mary shook her head; the woman had a terrible bedside manner and her other manners weren't much better.

It was only when Martha threw open the door and went in that Mary noticed the laundry basket Martha was carrying. Mary frowned, Martha walked around at night regularly enough, but she usually only left the infirmary in the middle of the night with a full laundry basket if she'd finished patching someone up who got hurt in a dirty or bloody manner. Her mind made up, Mary walked down to the open infirmary door.

Samantha stood there holding an infant; who had decided that it liked Eleanor White's fingers.

"He's slobbering on me," cried Eleanor, in disgust.

"That's what babies do, Eleanor," Mary said.

Samantha looked up, surprised. "Mary, dear, I thought Lucy was had her shift now. I hope we didn't wake you."

Mary smiled as she walked over to them. "Lucy was exhausted so I took over for her." she held out her arms. "May I?"

Eleanor pulled her fingers out of Tom's mouth then Samantha prised Eleanor's fingers from Tom's tight little grip and handed him to Mary.

Mary cooed as she held him, smiling as he stared at her, his eyes wide and curious. "Ooh, he's so small! Aren't you just adorable? Yes you are. And so active! Welcome to the family little one, what's your name, then? Are you a John? You look like a John."

Samantha smiled. "Actually, he's a Tom."

Mary's smile grew as she gently pushed Tom's blanket up to his chin. "A Tom? Oh how adorable! Hello little Tommy, I'm Mary, I'm going to take care of you."

As she said all this Tom's eyes fluttered closed.

The Matron sighed softly when she saw it. "Thank goodness, I was starting to wonder if he'd ever go to sleep."

Mary turned to the Matron, frowning. "What happened to his parents? He can't be more than a day old."

"Try less than two hours," said Eleanor.

"Do you know if he was born prematurely? He looks to small to be a full term baby," Mary asked.

"The mother didn't say, but we've got her corpse locked in the next room if you want to see it."

Mary, Eleanor and Samantha turned to look at the figure in the doorway.

"Martha!" cried Mary. "That's a horrible thing to say."

Martha looked at her sternly for a moment before speaking. "I said it because it's true. The baby was born around eleven and the mother committed suicide about an hour later." She then turned to Samantha. "I've sent Jonathan to the police station with a message: they should come to investigate at some point in the remainder of the night. You'd best get a cot ready for him, I'll bring us up a pot of tea."

* * *

Mary watched as Eleanor and Samantha finished putting the blankets into the cot, she absently ran her fingers down Tom's little cheek. A soft cough made all three look up. Martha stood in the doorway with a tray in her hands; it held four cups and the old tea pot. Without a word she placed it on the nearest dresser and left. When Samantha nodded to her, Mary moved forward and gently placed Tom in his cot, carefully tucking him in under the fresh, new sheet and soft, white blankets. All three women smiled when they saw one of his little hands close around the blanket.

"Ah, shouldn't he have a toy of some kind? Or is he too young?" asked Martha, behind them.

Samantha Cole blinked in surprise. "Martha, dear, when did you come back?"

Mary smiled. "He should, but I haven't had the chance to find him one yet. One night without won't hurt too badly."

In an uncharacteristic show of nervousness Martha fidgeted, her hands behind her back.

Samantha frowned. "Martha, dear, whatever is the matter with you? You've been out of sorts all night."

"It's nothing, just that, ah…you see, I figured that the baby would need some sort of stuffed animal to cling to…" Noticing the rather baffled looks she was given, Martha began to talk faster. "I had a brother, see, a younger brother, he died when I was…actually I don't remember how old I was, he was eight, and he had this stuffed monkey, see, and I… I thought that, maybe, the new baby should have it."

The others stared at her, for a moment, in disbelief. She had, after all, never mentioned having siblings of any kind; alive or dead.

"I just thought it might be appropriate since it's got 'Tom's' embroidered on it," she added, embarrassed, producing said stuffed animal from behind her back, as if to prove the truth of her words.

It was, indeed, a stuffed monkey. A soft, fluffy, white monkey whose belly was fluffless and had 'Tom's' embroidered on it in blue cursive letters. It was not the sort of thing one would usually associate with Martha, for she made no secret of the fact that she did not like children and would prefer not to work with them. Yet the way her fingers had tightened almost imperceptibly around the toy when Mrs. Cole move to take it, and the emotions which flickered over her face as she placed the monkey in the cot could leave no doubt that she was, somehow, attached to the fluffy toy and the child who had once owned it. Tom's little hand released the blanket he had been clutching and grabbed the monkey instead (once again, however, this was probably due more to coincidence and the fact that it was practically pushed into his hand than any conscious intent of his – especially because he was asleep).

Martha stared at him for a moment before fleeing the room with the muttered excuse of "I think I hear the doorbell."

* * *

Tom Riddle's eyes opened slowly. He was somewhere soft, and warm, and comfy. Not that he really knew any of that, as he was less than a day old and the ideas 'warm', 'comfy', 'soft', 'somewhere' and even 'he' were still foreign to him. He understood the sensations of 'soft' and 'comfy' and 'warm' but he didn't really know what they were, nor did he truly remember the earlier time when he was without them. He understood, on some basic level, that these sensations were good, and that he liked them, but he could not (at that young age) begin to understand that he liked them or that they were good. At that early stage in his life he could not yet think in what older humans would call 'concepts', let alone in words. This did not mean that he was unintelligent, merely that he could not communicate what he felt in any way we could hope to understand, and that he lacked the experience to connect ideas the way older children could.

He stared curiously at the soft padding that covered the side of his cot. It, like his sheets and blankets, was white: but unlike the sheets and blankets, all of which were relatively new (bought as a 'just in case' after the oldest and rattiest of the baby sheets and blankets had become too old, worn, and ratty), it was not a clean, bright white; it was a faded and dull colour, more closely beginning to resemble the gray walls. Tom was aware that the soft things around him (not that 'around him' meant much to him yet) were different looking than the big thing he was observing, but he did not know, could not know, that it was a difference in colour that separated the two. In a way we could never possibly hope to understand he vaguely wondered why he couldn't feel what he could see. Tom's little fingers twitched, but that was as far as his attempt (though it was not a truly conscious one) to touch the padding went. He was still a long way from having the necessary control over his arm to make it do that. In fact, he didn't even know that he could use his arms and hands for that yet, nor did his muscles – after all; his tiny toes had also twitched.

Not quite of his own volition Tom's head moved. Surprised, he stared at the ceiling. But at that age everything is surprising. He found himself looking up at two people – Dr. Elder and Sergeant Brown. Tom listened to them talking, fascinated – though he couldn't understand a word of it.

Sergeant Brown twirled his pencil between his fingers. "Tell me again," he said. "Why was there a bottle of Gin in the operating theatre?"

Martha sighed, she truly appreciated that Thomas Brown was so thorough with his job, but not when she was on the receiving end of his detailed questioning. "Unfortunately, I currently have, and at the time did not have, any anaesthetics. As I had to perform surgery I had only two options; give the woman a sip of alcohol and take the baby out very quickly, or attempt to perform surgery without giving the woman any sort of painkiller."

"A surgery that you were not qualified to perform."

"Correct. However, I was the only one in the building with any sort of medical degree, so I was the most qualified person to do so."

"Why did you not consider forceps?" he asked, frowning.

Martha looked furious. "I did consider forceps," she snarled. "But I quickly concluded that, as I was taught in medical school, attempting to use forceps on soft tissue – as you might care to recall the baby was breech – was too dangerous. There's enough risk of damaging the baby with forceps when they're placed around a baby's head, which is hard. Try using them on another part of the body and you're liable to _rip it off." _

Sergeant T. Brown stared at her in a manner which could only be properly described as 'dissectingly'. "And you to perform the surgery yourself, rather than taking the woman to a hospital or calling in a local doctor, why?"

Martha narrowed her eyes. "I am a doctor, or have you forgotten that I graduated as the top of my class when I left medical school? Have you also forgotten what the 'Dr.' that stands in front of my name means? Or have you forgotten that I once had a practice of my own? Never mind the little, minor, unimportant fact that it is snowing outside and the streets are covered with an unusually large amount of snow and ice – which, I might add, caused you to arrive here _an hour_ after Mr. Stone arrived with my message, therefore _two hours_ after he left the orphanage. Have you even bothered to consider that, as Eleanor and Samantha have no doubt informed you, the infant's heartbeat was growing weaker by the minute?"

Under Martha's intense glare Sergeant Brown seemed to shrink. "Still," he said quietly, "is it possible that you could have taken the mother and child to a hospital, rather than performing the operation yourself."

"It is possible. But by the time she arrived at the hospital, let alone had been brought into the operating theatre, the unborn infant would have been dead – and she would have been near death. She all ready was, when I performed the surgery."

Sergeant Brown nodded. "Just one more question."

"You said that twenty minutes ago."

"I just find your choice of, ah, operating theatre a bit unusual. Why the small room next door to the infirmary? Why not the actual infirmary? Both Mrs. Cole and Miss White expressed confusion over your choice."

"That's two questions."

"Martha!"

Tom felt a desire to reach out and touch the funny big things that were making noise. Unfortunately for him, his brain and his muscles had yet to work each other out, and (as a result) he didn't actually move.

"As you no doubt have all ready noticed, there are three children currently in the infirmary – all down with the flu. The youngest of them is three. Do you really believe that I could be so cruel as to perform a very bloody surgery in the same room as three young children?"

Sergeant Brown raised an eyebrow. "You know that I don't think that. But I do need to know what that room is usually used for."

"Perfectionist," Martha muttered as she smoothed out Tom's blankets.

"Martha, please. It's three in the morning! Can we please just get this over with?"

The doctor snorted. "You're not the one with the corpse two doors down from your bedroom. …And it is closer to four in the morning."

Thomas Brown looked at her coldly. "Kindly just answer the question. If you're not hiding something than stop acting as if you are. The woman committed suicide; you have nothing to worry about."

"I just don't enjoy talking about it." She sighed, "This orphanage is quite unusual because it was built to be an orphanage – by the honourable Sir James Blackwood, he died a decade or so ago. He was quite the eccentric. He had that room put there so that we'd have somewhere to put the… problematic children. We call it the 'Disturbed room'. It's where we put the children with major physical disabilities or… mental problems. We had to send the last child who stayed in there to a mental hospital a couple of years ago – she'll be twelve now. But mentally she's no older than six months old. Dymphna's parents left a note when they dumped her here; it said they couldn't cope with her any more."

"So you chose to perform the surgery there because no children were occupying it," stated Brown.

Martha ran a finger along Tom's tiny cheek. "It was also conveniently placed. Then there's the fact that the mother looked like a walking corpse when she came in – I figured it was best that she delivered in a room with locks on the doors. That way I wouldn't have to worry about one of the children running into the infirmary to find a corpse in their path if something did happen."

Sergeant Brown smiled sadly and placed a hand on Martha's shoulder. He nodded to the curious infant who was staring at them. "He's awfully cute isn't he, Marty?" The Sergeant murmured.

"Yes," Martha said. "Yes, I suppose he is."


	3. Baby's First Outing: January 14th, 1927

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Three: Baby's First Outing**

Tom Riddle liked his cot. Not that he could have expressed that thought. In fact, he had disliked very few things in his short life: the two week old baby liked almost everything that he knew existed.

Tom liked his cot, he liked his food, his blankets, he liked staring at the pretty moving thing that floated above him, and he liked the two big people who took care of him. Tom didn't know it, but his two main caretakers – Mary Bonner and Lucy Jones – liked him too. Of course, at that age, he could not yet tell one person from another. He was a quiet baby; he hardly ever cried, which allowed them to feel more relaxed. After all, a quiet baby was easier to care for than a demanding baby. It gave them more chances to sleep.

At that point Tom Riddle was also the only actual baby in the orphanage; which was highly unusual. He shared the nursery with five toddlers, the oldest of whom was almost three. But Tom didn't actually know that – he'd never seen the other children in the nursery (none of whom had been able to look into his cot) and he had no idea that the other children existed. Although Tom had heard the sounds made by the other children and he liked those sounds.

On the other hand, Tom didn't like it when his nappy was wet, and he didn't like it when he was hungry. But Lucy and Mary took good care of him, so he never felt those sensations for long.

But today he vaguely understood that something was happening that hadn't happened to him before. Not that, for a two week old baby, that was unusual. He was being dressed, by Mary, in a black romper suit. Black was, so far, something he hadn't seen in his clothing yet (as far as he could recall). Black was, to him, Mary's eyes and what happened at night – but only when he was looking at them. Though, in all honesty, night was also something he could not yet comprehend. Nor could he comprehend that he was going to his mother's funeral that day. Tom didn't know that was the reason every face he'd seen that day (just Mary's) looked so solemn. Nor did he know that was the reason that Mary was cooing over him more than usual. But he did understand that he liked the attention.

Tom gurgled contently as Mary picked him up. "Oh," she murmured. "You are becoming a big boy, aren't you?"

"Actually, he's unusually small for a two week old," a voice stated behind her.

Mary turned to look at the newcomer, startled. "Why Martha," she said, "what a surprise. You don't usually darken the doorway of my nursery."

Martha's mouth twisted in distaste. "Our gracious matron sent me up to tell you to get your arse down there with the brat," she snapped.

Mary stared at her in shock for a moment, too stunned to speak.

Seeing her colleague silenced, Martha seemed to deflate slightly, allowing herself to lean slightly on the doorframe. Martha sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry, Mary, that was uncalled for," she ground out. "Are you two ready to go?"

Mary nodded, shifting Tom in her arms, and followed the aggravated doctor out of the room and down the hall. Tom's only response was to blow spit bubbles at the leggy big person leading them down the hall after she'd turned away. Although that might not constitute as a response, as he seemed completely unaware of what he was doing until Mary stopped to mop up the saliva that was dribbling down his chin.

Quickening her pace, Mary managed to catch up with her co-worker as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "Are you alright, Martha?" she asked. "You've been acting out of sorts all week."

"I am perfectly fine, Miss Bonner. Why wouldn't I be?" Martha replied, coldly.

Mary snorted. "I don't know, Martha. Maybe it's because you're working in an orphanage and hate children, or maybe it's because you lost a patient not to long ago," she said dryly.

"Then why do you feel the need to ask?" Martha replied, but had neither the vitriol nor the humour of her usual responses. It just sounded tired.

"Gah," said Tom, squirming slightly in Mary's arms.

A warm chuckle brought their attention away from what had steadily been trying very hard to dissolve into an argument.

Martha turned and addressed the person who had startled them, "Samantha." She paused, exhaustion clearly fighting her natural temperament, before adding: "Do you honestly call that black?"

Tom blew spit bubbles.

Samantha merely chuckled again, instead of rising to the bait. "It would seem little Tommy here is a born negotiator, considering the fact that he stopped you two dead in your tracks. Normally nothing short of a natural disaster can stop you two once you start arguing," she said.

Martha pursed her lips. "Can we just go?" she queried. "The sooner this funeral is over with the sooner I can get back to doing my job."

Mary frowned and cuddled Tom closer to her – Tom, however had other ideas and started squirming again, apparently trying to reach Samantha – and glowered at Martha. "Honestly, Martha, can you really be so unfeeling as to be unwilling to attend the poor woman's funeral?" she asked. "It's really the least you can do. Poor Tommy will probably start to think that you hate him if you don't. Besides, you have a duty to be there: it's your fault the poor woman's dead, after all."

Martha blanched. Behind her, Samantha frowned and cried: "Mary!" in exasperation.

If Mary had a free hand at that point she probably would have clamped it over her mouth. As things stood, however, she was supporting Tom with both of them so she had to settle for looking appropriately horrified and chastised. "Oh lord," Mary moaned. "I should not have said that. It was a horrible thing to do. Oh, Martha, I know you tried your hardest to save her, I'm so sorry."

"So am I," Martha whispered, turning away.

Mary handed Tom over to Samantha and hurried after the doctor. "Martha, you know I didn't mean-"

"I know exactly what you meant, Mary," Martha hissed, glaring at her.

Samantha sighed and followed the bickering pair out the front door. "At least two of us are sane," she murmured, looking at Tom.

Moments later, Henry Cole – Samantha's grown and only son – flung open the front door and ran out after his mother, calling to her retreating back: "Wait! You forgot the pram!"

With several of the older orphans watching and giggling from their bedroom windows, the matron turned around and went back for the forgotten perambulator.

Tom gurgled helpfully. He was still gurgling twenty-five minutes later when they reached the small church where the funeral was being held. If it weren't for how happy he'd looked she'd have thought there was something wrong. Vaguely, she wondered if he even understood that his mother was dead. His happy gurgling and wide-eyed expression suggested he did not and that he was more interested in the big blue thing above him (the sky) and the small brightly coloured things that often flew across it (the birds and the leaves). But that was hardly surprising, as it was the first time he'd been outside the orphanage.

A well-dressed gentleman walked by with his dog – am excitable Cairn Terrier that was almost continually sniffing, barking and rolling in the snow (which sometimes seemed taller than the dog pouncing on it) – and Samantha would have sworn that Tom had tried to turn his head so that he could better follow the sounds made by the Terrier and the gentleman's shiny shoes. It was the only time in the journey he wasn't making noises.

When she, or rather they, arrived she could see Mary talking to the Reverend, while the gravediggers (who had insisted on paying their respects, as most had grown up in the orphanage) watched in amusement as Martha debated something or other with Sergeant Brown.

The small church stood near the junction of Vauxhall Grove and Harleyford Road, looking particularly shabby in comparison to some of the buildings nearby. Not that it was terribly run down – it was actually quite well kept, though it could have used a new coat of paint and several shingles required repair – but with the cluttered mess of cheaply made tombstones in the churchyard it felt more downtrodden than it actually was. Samantha Cole sighed, it was the best the orphanage could afford and it was a very nice place – the Reverend Honeycutt was a particularly pleasant person – but she felt rather sorry that she had to bury the little boy's mother in such a poor location. Just as she always felt terribly guilty when she had to lay one of her young wards to rest in the little churchyard: the poor mites hadn't had much in life, it felt wrong for them to have just as little in death.

Samantha sighed again. She couldn't help wondering what she'd say to the boy in a few years, when he started asking why his mother had such a cheap headstone in such a poor position in the churchyard. She shook her head, wondering how on earth she was supposed to explain to a child that they could barely afford to buy his mother's coffin, never mind finding her a nice place to rest. As she walked over to save the Reverend and the Sergeant from their respective conversations (both Mary and Martha could be impossible once they'd dug their claws into a subject), Samantha mentally made note of her decision to let Lucy deal with any uncomfortable questions that the young boy might have. It would save her the headache, if nothing else.

The sound of Samantha's footsteps alerted the Reverend to her presence and he looked around. "Ah, Mrs. Cole," he said. "It's a pleasure to see you, as always, although I wish it were under better circumstances."

"I wish it were under better weather," Martha said.

"Martha that was rude!" Mary scolded.

The doctor glowered. "It was a fact, Mary."

The Reverend, who had never met Martha before, attempted to mediate. "It is quite alright, Miss Bonner, the good doctor was right to say that the weather conditions today are less than one would have hoped for. Perhaps we should have a warm cup of cocoa after…it's over?"

"Perhaps," Martha interjected, "we should actually get to the 'being over' part, as some of us have work to do."

Samantha ignored this, knowing that the doctor was merely taking out her foul mood on the nearest available targets, especially those that reminded her of the cause of her...irritation – which was indubitably her own grief at loosing a patient and subsequent change in sleeping patterns: no one else in the orphanage would pace the infirmary at all hours of the night. "A hot cup of cocoa would be lovely, Reverend." She nodded to the gravediggers, "For the boys too, I shouldn't wonder, you know I always like to check up on the lads."

Reverend Honeycutt leaned over the pram and smiled. "What a darling child," he said, smiling down at the baffled infant. "Does he take after his mother?"

One of the gravediggers, a young man who had grown up at the orphanage, looked baffled. "Couldn't you tell, Bert?" he asked.

"Everything has been closed casket since the body returned from the coroners' office," replied Martha, glaring at the Sergeant. "But the infant clearly does _not_ take after his mother."

Sergeant Brown, if anything, appeared even more exasperated. "I had every right to request an autopsy, Marty."

"But it was completely unnecessary!" the doctor snarled. Hearing this, Tom's eyes widened. Loud, angry voices were also a reasonably new experience for him.

Reverend Honeycutt recoiled slightly from the argument, leaning over Tom's pram and accidentally blocking most of his view of the world. His new entertainment blocked from him by an odd big person in a big black thing, Tom began to whimper.

"That was the reason I did it, Martha," the Sergeant replied, his voice now also loud and angry.

"Oh, and that is supposed to make sense, is it? You would not have demanded an autopsy if a _male_ doctor's patient had done it!" Martha snarled.

Tom sobbed quietly in the perambulator, but all eyes were on the argument which was terrifying him.

"You're right, Martha, I would not have!" Brown growled. "Do you know why?"

Dr. Elder stared at him, silenced by the unexpected twist in the argument. Seeing this, Sergeant Brown sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "You are a suffragette, Marty, and some of my colleges are still looking for excuses to have people like you arrested. That autopsy proves your story; it means you never have to worry about someone using the woman's death against you. I was trying to protect you."

Martha's reply was flat and cold in tone, but her eyes were no longer hard. "I do not need your protection, Thomas Brown."

Tom Riddle sniffled.

* * *

The funeral itself had been a short affair. Reverend Honeycutt had given a brief eulogy for the deceased, but as they knew so little about her it mainly consisted of how sad it was that a girl so young (she had looked about nineteen, but they couldn't be certain) had lost her life, how she would be missed (presumably by Tom) how much she had loved her son (enough to die for him) and how she would watch over him from Heaven (someone snorted at this point).

The cheap coffin had been placed in a small plot near the crowded back of the graveyard. The Reverend – to give the poor woman the best she could have for such a meagre funeral – read several passages from the Bible and said a long prayer, in Latin and English; during which Martha and Tom had observed each other briefly across the open grave as the others bowed their heads in prayer and Tom, distracted once again, began squirming to be released from Samantha's arms. The gravediggers had all stood with their hats off and had – once they'd filled in the grave – murmured a kind word or goodbye to the late Mrs. Riddle, before leaving to put down their shovels and clean up. They were shortly followed by Mary, the Reverend and the Sergeant; leaving only Martha and Samantha – holding Tom – by the grave. The sounds of chatter from the church's parlour and the ever present popping from Tom's spit bubbles contrasted the stony silence between the two women to an almost painful degree.

"It wasn't your fault, Martha," Samantha finally said.

Tom made a tiny whinge-like sound and squirmed, as if trying to cuddle up to the Matron to escape the cold. For a moment Mrs. Cole envied Martha her expensive, black fur coat – a present from the senior Dr. Elder, without a doubt. The coat's owner remained silent, staring steadfastly at the small headstone, even as the wind picked up and her un-styled hair flew out frown under her cloche hat. With a sigh Samantha turned and began to walk toward the church, aware she need to get Tom out of the cold – brushing her own greying curls out of her face as she went.

"If her throat hadn't been slit, she would have taken hours to die, painfully, knowing there was no hope for her. I see no fault," Martha said. But only the gravestones heard her.


	4. Tom the Living Diary: January 24th, 1927

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**

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**

Chapter Four: Tom the Living Diary

A bit over a week had passed since Tom's mother had been laid to rest. Tom didn't know that. In fact, being just over three weeks old, Tom didn't know much of anything. Although the adults around him spoke to him quite a bit, Tom had yet to discover that all the funny noises made by the big people actually had meanings, nor did all the different colours, shapes and forms he saw make sense to him yet. Like all babies at that age, Tom's eyes followed things that moved and things that made noise with fascination and awe. However, Tom had yet to truly experience interaction with the five toddlers who he shared the nursery with. With little Willard Boot finally on his feet, it had been decided that it was too dangerous to put Tom, on a blanket, on the floor so he could see the others.

Willard Boot was one of the five toddlers sharing the nursery with Tom. Only a few days before Tom had arrived, Willard had taken his first few, tentative steps alone. Shortly after that he had discovered the joys of running. Willard was very good at running. Unfortunately, it was the stopping that he had trouble with. Not to mention the fact that he didn't even try to watch where he was going – he was too young to realize how important that was. So with a wild toddler's hard little feet on the loose, it was decided that the floor (no matter how much the new environment would stimulate Tom's interest) was no place for an innocent baby.

Lucy and Mary did their best to make up for the fact that Tom mainly stayed in his cot by holding him and talking to him. Not that Tom understood a word of it. That, perhaps, is the nicest thing about little babies: one can tell them anything and they will not judge you. Adults seem to instinctually know this, as leaving one alone with an infant for a time will almost certainly guarantee that they will go from jabbering nonsense at the infant to confiding in it all their problems, worries and minor annoyances. The same effect can be seen with pets and inanimate objects such as diaries and dolls. This probably says quite a bit about human nature. Even plants occasionally suffer from this injustice.

Mary sighed and cradled Tom in her arms. "Hello there, little man. How are you today?"

Tom gurgled.

Mary smiled. "That's good. Let's get your bottle, shall we? Do you want your baba? I'm sure you do! You must be one hungry little boy, darling...please?" As she said all this she picked up the bottle filled with milk which she'd placed on the counter and attempted to get Tom to open his mouth. It took four tries to get the teat into his stubborn little mouth, but when she finally managed it Tom's eyes seemed to light up and he drank enthusiastically.

"There, now, darling – that's better, isn't it?" Mary cooed. "You certainly are a hungry little fellow. I can't say I blame you either. You wouldn't be nearly so small if your mummy had taken better care of herself, not to speak ill of the dead, but I have to say I've a hard time believing she was really a _Mrs_. Riddle. Though I can understand her not wanting to admit that she'd been living in sin and I can't help feeling sorry for the poor dear, she'd evidently suffered so much for her mistakes."

Mary sighed and brushed one of her yellow locks behind her ear, holding the bottle with the same hand, then (when Tom made a little noise which could have been the very beginning of a protesting wail) slipped the teat back into his mouth. Wide eyed, Tom began to drink again.

"But I suppose she might have been married, after all, Riddle is such an odd name – your middle name too, Marv–Marvolo, so odd. Certainly not the sort of thing you hear every day…and she wasn't much to look at. I shouldn't really think such horrid things, let alone say them, but you are awfully lucky your mummy got her wish; you don't look a spot like her. Perhaps she was from the circus? Then, I'd say, it was an even better thing that she came to us. A circus is no place for a child to live."

Tom had stopped drinking halfway through his bottle and Mary began to rub his back comfortingly, unable to help thinking that her displeased tone might have frightened the poor child.

"There, there, dear: be a good boy for Mary and drink up. And then have a nice, long, nap for me, won't you sweetheart? It's Lucy's day off. She's a bit like your mother was, I think, our Lucy. That's not to say she's a bad person, not at all – it's her day off and she's still here getting Willie Boot washed up and dressed smart so he can go home with his new parents – but she'll go to town with some gentleman and drink, she does it every Monday, with her knees almost showing and far more necklaces than one woman should ever need. At least it's always our Jonathan these last few months. He's a good man, seems to finally be calming her down. Not that it's really changed much – she's gone from having a hangover every Tuesday to rushing about with rags in her wet hair before bed each night. Heaven knows why she won't just save her pay one week and get a hairdresser to do it, instead of spending all of it while out dancing and then complaining about it!"

Tom blinked at her.

With a sigh Mary put the empty bottle down (after pulling it out of Tom's less than willing mouth) and leaned him up against her shoulder to burp him.

"Mary!" Lucy called from the doorway, carrying a half-dressed toddler. "Mary, could you help me with Willard? He won't let me finish dressing him and refuses to brush his teeth."

"Lucy, honestly, I'm taking care of Tom right now," Mary replied, only slightly exasperated with her (usually) chirpy co-worker, as she patted Tom's back.

Tom burped.

"Mary, please," Lucy all but begged as Willard began trying to pull her hair.

Mary nodded; she'd never really intended to say no. "Very well, but I need you to stay here and look after the others until I return…and see if you can get Tom to sleep, Heaven knows he never does for me," Mary said.

Then, with a little bit of the tricky manoeuvring found only in parents and those who work around small children, Mary handed Tom to Lucy and Lucy gave Willard to Mary – who, quick as a flash, took him out the door and headed for the bathroom, in search of his missing clothes.

Lucy smiled and rocked Tom in her arms, glancing about the room at the four toddlers; all of whom were being amazingly quiet and peaceful. Of course, that was because they were all taking a nap, not because they were behaving particularly well.

"There, now," Lucy said. "You must be tired. A little nap would do you good and then, later, we shall put a blanket on the floor so you and Mr. Monkey can meet the other children. Would you like that? Yes you would, yes you would!" This last was said in the sort of high-pitched squeal, which passes for cooing, found among those who act as if, since the young child or animal can not complain, they have the right to offend their ears. However, those who do not do this make up a very small percent of the world' population and are, generally, foul tempered.

"And since Willard is going to a new family today you get to see more than your little cot," Lucy continued. "We wouldn't want you to get hurt, now, would we? Especially not Mary – she's a dear, she is. A tad old-fashioned, but she's got her heart in the right place. But, really, telling me I shouldn't be going out for a drink because God doesn't approve," Lucy sniffed. "It's nineteen twenty-seven! After all; faith's a good thing, but one has to put it in perspective. There can be no doubt that the Lord would not approve of blatant alcoholism, but surely if he didn't approve of a few drinks he would do something about all the pubs, wouldn't he? Besides, I mainly drink that American bubbly stuff since Jonathan started taking me out. Nevertheless, I wouldn't say no to a proper drink again."

Tom blinked up at her, wide awake in spite of everything.

"LUCY, HUG!"

Willard Boot had returned. He was closely followed by a severely aggravated Mary.

"He refuses to go downstairs and leave without a hug from you," Mary explained, rather tersely.

"Oh," said Lucy, staring – somewhat dazedly – at the little boy wrapped around her legs, "I see."

"Luucccy!" Willard insisted.

"Um, Mary? If you could take Tom, I'll bring Willard and his things down to his new family," Lucy offered weakly as she tried to remain balanced.

"And huggie," Willard insisted.

"Yes, yes, Willard, Lucy will give you a hug," Lucy said," just as soon as Mary takes the b–" Lucy stopped short as Mary shook her head almost frantically.

Mary mouthed something to Lucy so the sharp eared little boy wouldn't overhear it.

"That is…I'll give you a hug as soon as…saucy flips a calamity?" Lucy said.

Mary tried again.

"Wha?" Willard asked.

Tom blew spit bubbles.

"I mean, once teas biff his…I'm sorry, what?"

Exasperated, Mary pointed to the floor.

Lucy stared at her for a moment before shaking herself out of her stupor. "I'm sorry, Mary, this is _ridiculous_." Lucy held Tom out. "Here, you take Tom; I'll take Willard and his things downstairs and give him a hug in the office, before he leaves."

"Huggie," Willard demanded, then he wrinkled his nose. "Baby smells bad."

Mary plucked the (now sniffling) infant from Lucy's arms and walked over to the counter which doubled as a changing table. "His things are already wanting for him in the office. But I don't doubt you'll have to pry him off your legs and carry him to get him to move. He keeps finding ways to stall."

Lucy blinked. "Which is why you didn't want me to hug him here, that makes sense," she said. Unfortunately, from her tone, it was impossible to tell whether she was sarcastic or sincere.

"Huggie?" Willard whinged.

If he had been older, one might have thought Tom picked up on this tone as he began to make small whining noises as Mary removed his nappy.

"Willard, dear," Lucy murmured, "why don't we have a little race?"

The toddler's eyes lit up at the last word: he liked races.

"We'll see who can get to Mrs. Cole's office first," Lucy added. However, before she could finish her sentence, Willard was on his little feet and heading for the door at full speed.

Once he'd disappeared around the corner, Mary turned to her colleague with a disapproving glare. "I do hope you realise that if he falls down those stairs he is your responsibility."

"Oh god," Lucy gasped and dashed out after him, nearly colliding with Jonathan, who was just peaking around the door.

Glancing between Mary and the direction Lucy had taken off in, Jonathan grinned. "My guess is; she isn't ready to go," he said dryly.

"Oh good," said Mary, "just wet."

Jonathan blinked as he walked into the nursery. "I'm going to assume you mean the baby."

"A few of the little ones have had diarrhoea recently. Now, this one's not on solids yet, so if it was because they ate something wrong it can't affect him, but I was still a little worried, in case it was the flu. Heaven knows I won't get any sleep if he does get it," Mary replied, as she powdered Tom's bum.

Tom sniffled, expressing his displeasure.

"That's, ah, nice," Jonathan said.

One of the toddlers, a two year old named Samuel, sat up and pushed at his blankets. "M'ry?" he asked hopefully.

"Not now, dear, I'm taking care of the baby," Mary said.

"…Mary," the boy began to whine.

Mary sighed, "Just a minute."

Jonathan looked between the two rather hopelessly – no more sure what to do with an infant's nappy than a child so young. Thankfully, however, at that moment Mary finished doing up Tom's clean nappy and his romper suit.

"Here, Jonathan, make yourself useful while wait for Lucy," Mary said handing Tom to him and hurrying over to calm the sniffling toddler.

Jonathan stared at the wide-eyed infant in his arms, baffled. "Ah, hello there," he said cautiously. "My name is Jonathan, I've been told that yours is Tom. That's a nice name. I had an uncle called Tom. He died in the war, in France. He was a very brave man though, he died for his country."

Tom gave a tiny yawn.

Jonathan frowned, then shifted the boy slightly in his arms so that he could pull a small box out of his inner coat pocket. "Say, would you like to see something special? Here," he flicked open the tiny box and waved it in front of Tom's nose to get his attention, "it's for Lucy. What do you think?"

Tom's wide little eyes followed the shiny ring in the box with fascination. He made a little gurgling noise.

Jonathan smiled slightly. "I shall take that to mean 'I think she'll love it, Jon', then, shall I?"

"JONATHAN!" Mary yelped suddenly. "What are you doing? You can't give a baby something like that! He could choke on it!"

Startled, Jonathan quickly shut the box and tucked it back into his jacket. Mary didn't seem to think this was quite enough, however, and plucked Tom from his arms and placed him back in his cot.

"Go wait for Lucy downstairs," she snapped. "I'll tell her where you are if she asks."

Abashed, Jonathan left. He returned many hours later, his tie hanging loose and looking extraordinarily despondent.

Mary, who was awake because Tom was again unable to sleep, stared in shock as Jonathan stumbled in morosely. "Jonathan? What on earth are you doing?" she hissed. "It's nearly midnight!"

Jonathan sat on the ground, slumped against the wall in misery. "She doesn't love me."

Mary blinked. "Jonathan that's ridiculous." She paused, wrinkling her nose as if she was considering sniffing him, "Jonathan, have you been drinking?"

"No," Jonathan muttered. "I'd have to be at a pub or a club to be drinking, and if I'd been there I'd have to see her, wouldn't I?"

Mary slipped into the rocking chair, with Tom in her arms, making soft shushing noises (aimed, of course, at the baby, since she actually wanted Jonathan to explain).

"Everything was going fine. I was going to take the ring out and ask her in a few minutes, and I would have, if that bloody bastard hadn't shown up."

"Jonathan! You shouldn't talk like that around children," Mary scolded. "What if they picked up that kind of language?"

Jonathan glared at her through half-lidded eyes, exhausted in spite of his misery. "Is that all you care about, Mary? They're all asleep."

Mary sighed. "Of course not, Jon, but I can already guess what happened. Lucy saw someone she knew and had a couple of dances with them, and you left in a fit of jealousy. Not that she should be dancing with so many men, but I don't honestly think she meant anything by it."

"It wasn't just an old friend, Mary, it was Sir John Blackwood – the one who inherited control of this place from his uncle James."

Mary looked at him sadly, Jonathan – despite his less than excellent taste in women – was a good man. He didn't deserve this.

"Two hours, Mary," he muttered. "I sat there like a fool for two hours watching them dance – waiting for her to remember I was there."

"Oh, Jon, I'm so sorry."

Jonathan just shrugged in reply. Tom, however, made a little noise and shifted slightly.

Mary looked down at him and sighed. At Jonathan's odd look she whispered, "He woke up around nine and hasn't slept since – I've been trying to get him to sleep by walking for hours and he chooses the moment I finally sit down to nod off."

Jonathan smiled weakly. The soft glow of the candle Mary had lit flickered as he stood and walked toward the door. He stopped at the door for a moment, in thought, then pulled the small red box from his jacket and placed it on the counter.

"Jon?" Mary murmured.

"Give it to him when he's older. He evidently liked it more than she would have," he replied and, silently, left.

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A/N: I don't push for reviews, nor do I require them. But I certainly won't object to them.


	5. Monkey Business: February 17th, 1927

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs, spanking of children (historically accurate) and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

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**Chapter Five: Monkey Business**

They say that at six weeks old a baby often gives its first true smile. Whether or not this was true, neither Lucy nor Mary was sure. But that had not deterred their fellow orphanage staff from attempting to illicit a first smile every time there was a six week old (or thereabouts) baby in the orphanage. Simon Hughes, especially, was incorrigible. Mary sniffed in irritation whenever she found him hanging around the nursery – he was, after all, supposed to be in charge of the boys older than eleven. Tom seemed to like him, though.

"C'mon, Tommy, smile," Simon implored the infant.

Tom blinked at him. That seemed to be his standard response to everything.

"Simon, leave. He's not going to do anything. He can't understand you," Mary scolded as she walked in, holding a sleepy toddler.

Tom rolled his head to the side at the sound of her voice.

"Garn! Why's he do that for you and not me, eh?" Simon complained.

Tom looked left.

Mary pursed her lips. "Don't you have something better to do with your time then try to make him turn his head, Simon?"

Tom turned his head slightly to the right again.

Simon frowned at her. "I'm not trying to get him to turn his head, Mary. God knows he's been turnin' at every little sound for a fair few days now, it's a smile I'm after. Smilin's very important. And with you two walkin' around like a pair of rainclouds he'll never learn."

Mary blinked. "Must you talk like that? I _know_ you can pronounce 'ing' properly. Yet you still insist on talking like a gutter rat."

Tom gurgled.

Simon looked back to the cot as he shrugged. "Is that all you care about, Mary? Lucy's been in a right state for weeks now, but that don't seem to bother you."

"Doesn't," Mary corrected, waspishly.

Tom turned his head toward her.

"Besides," Simon continued, as if he hadn't heard her, "my accent comes out stronger when I'm stressed or agitated, y'know that."

Tom then got distracted by the tiny mobile hanging about his cot. Little angels swung around above him, their once-white gowns greyed from age and many of their halos were missing.

"Neither of which you are at the moment," she replied. "Moreover, Lucy's misery is nobody's fault but her own. If she insists upon dashing about the town from gentleman to gentleman breaking hearts, then she must be ready to accept that someone might choose to break hers in return."

Simon Hughes was normally a very cheerful person. He'd often been described as a clown and both in personality and appearance – this was a very accurate description: his messy flaxen hair, slightly too large feet, large brown eyes and round face with its trademark huge grin definitely helped the resemblance. But that grin, which he had been trying to coax Tom into making, disappeared at Mary's harsh reply. Frowning slightly, Simon turned and left – and so he missed the huge, toothless grin the baby had tried to give him.

Crinkling his nose slightly as the happy-man-with-the-nice-smile left, Tom turned his head away from the sound of the no-longer-happy-man's footsteps and took a nap.

He woke several hours later, hungry and uncomfortable, and sniffled. Almost immediately, Lucy picked him up and carried him to the changing table, cooing comfortingly as she did. She continued to do so as she changed, fed and burped him – mainly cooing about how adorable he was and how glad she was that he'd slept through dinner, because she'd been afraid he'd wake when no one could hear him.

With a smile, Lucy then placed Tom stomach down on a soft blanket which covered a section of the floor. Tom blinked at her, baffled by the sudden change in perspective. He'd never seen the world from so low down before. Hearing a giggle from his left, he turned his head slightly to stair at a pair of little girls playing with simple, soft dolls. They couldn't have been older than four, but Tom didn't know that. Whether he even understood that these big (bigger than he was, at least) people were the cause of the noises he spent much of his time awake listening to was, itself, debatable. Next to him, on the blanket, Lucy placed Tom's monkey.

Not long after (due to the combination of exasperating whining and innocent pleading the girls had presented) Mary scooped him up and sat down with the girls, who giggled happily as Mary allowed them each a chance to hold him (with her assistance). Mary watched with concern; she would not have normally agreed to let the girls cuddle the baby, but she doubted the girls would be willing to sleep if she said no – and it would soon be their bed time.

Behind them, one of the young boys toddled away from the blocks he was playing with and over to Tom's unused blanket. There he picked up the forgotten monkey, cuddled it to his cheek, yawned and stumbled to his cot.

Soon after, Lucy lifted him from his cot – seeing but not thinking about the toy monkey which slipped out of his tired fingers and onto his blankets as she did – and helped him to change into his night clothes. As Mary changed Tom, Lucy took the other young boy to the bathroom and helped him to brush his teeth.

There were, in fact, three little boys in the nursery at that point; but with Mary taking care of Tom and Lucy helping Samuel, little Arnold was left to play with the blocks Samuel had abandoned, near Lizzie and her twin sister: Gertrude. Arnold didn't mind this at all. Tom seemed equally content as he was cleaned up and put to bed by Mary, while Lucy helped Arnold to clean up. They always left the twins for last, as the girls made it impossible to care for them if they weren't taken together. Soon enough, all three boys were in their cots and Elizabeth and Gertrude were being carried down the hall to the bathroom, to brush their teeth, by Mary and Lucy respectively.

Uncomfortable, although he could probably not have understood and definitely could not have explained why, Tom began to whimper.

No one responded.

Tom (for lack of a better term) knew from experience – or perhaps it was instinct – that if he was uncomfortable all he had to do was make noise and a big person would come and make him feel better. So when no one came, he became confused and upset as well as uncomfortable and cold.

In the age old fashion of mammalian infants everywhere, when no adult responded to his cry he began to call louder.

Arnold and Samuel stared at his cot from their own, both wondering why Mary and Lucy hadn't made him stop yet. Tom's wailing grew louder and Arnold sank into a sitting position on his cot, covering his ears and trying to appear as small as possible. Samuel, on the other hand, joined in.

"MAAARYY! LUUCYYY!" he shouted. "MAAAARRRYYY!"

Further irritated by the sudden loud noises being made; Tom's wailing increased in volume.

"Stop! Sammy stop!" shrieked Arnold, equally unhappy at the rising level of noise.

"MAARYY!" yelled Samuel.

"WAAAAAHHHHHH!"

"BE QUIET!" Arnold screamed, turning Mary's favourite phrase on what was normally his friend.

Tom, amazingly, managed to make his wailing even louder. So loud, in fact, that none of them heard the running footsteps that heralded the return of their caretakers. It was not until the door flew open and Mary and Lucy appeared in the doorway (followed by the baffled twin girls, both of whose faces were still partially covered in toothpaste) that Samuel and Arnold ceased what had managed to turn into a distinctly unpleasant screaming match. Tom continued to wail.

Alarmed – Tom had never cried like this before – Mary hurried over and picked him up. "Tommy, sweetheart, what ever is the matter? Are you not feeling well?"

Tom's wailing, although slightly decreased in decibel now that he was being held and knew he had his caretaker's attention, did not stop.

Worried, Mary patted his bottom. "You don't need changing, sweetie, surely you can't be hungry already?" It came out more as a question than a statement.

Lucy hurried down to the kitchen and soon returned with Tom's filled bottle. By then Mary had taken to pacing and rocking Tom in her arms to try and soothe him. But every time they tried to slip the teat into his mouth, Tom turned his head and his wailing grew louder. After they gave up on the idea that he was hungry (Tom's reaction had been a clear and vehement no) Mary sat in the rocking chair and tried singing to him. For a while it appeared to work and Lucy managed to get the twins into bed (with their teeth brushed and everything, alone, which would have been very impressive any other day) although they could not sleep with the noise. Tom's wailings had descended to soft sniffles, but the moment Mary placed him gently in his cot, he began to cry again.

Mary stared down at him in bafflement. "What in heaven's name is wrong with you?" she asked, concerned.

Tom merely continued to wail and twist his head from side to side.

Lucy joined her in observing the baby. "…Where's his toy?" she asked finally.

Mary shook her head. "It's not really important, Lucy, he's not even old enough to realise it's missing. We can look for it once they've all gone to sleep."

"He usually sleeps with it at his head, though, he might be cold without it. He'd notice that," Lucy replied.

Mary looked at her. "That is absolutely ridiculous, Lucy."

"…But," Lucy continued for her.

Mary sighed. "As I have no more sensible ideas at the moment, I suppose we shall have to try." She looked around the room, rather hopelessly, before walking over to Arnold's cot. "Arnold, sweetie, have you seen a white toy monkey anywhere? Tommy's lost his."

"Sammy took it," he replied, completely unconcerned. "We sleep now? No more loud noises?" he added, hopefully.

Mary, however, was already stalking over to Samuel's cot. Sure enough, the boy was holding the missing monkey in his hands and looked highly unlikely to give it up.

"Samuel, whose monkey is that?" she asked, her displeasure evident in every word.

"Mine," he replied.

Mary frowned down at him, unhappily aware that – in spite of Tom's continued crying – she had not misheard him. "It's not nice to steal other people's things, Samuel," she said. "Now give me the monkey."

"NO!" the little boy shouted, clutching the monkey tighter. "It's mine. I found it. No one had it. Is mine."

"You can't just go around taking other people's things, young man," Mary said, cross, as she reached out to take the toy.

Samuel's only reaction was to clutch it harder and start screaming about her stealing his toy.

Lucy, by now, was also covering her ears. "Oh just let him have it, Mary," she said. "Tom can have a different toy."

"It's not right to let him keep it, Lucy," Mary coldly said. "Besides, what else do we have to give Tom? That polished stick you found in his mother's dress when you washed it? The only spare toy we can safely put in his cot with him is Samuel's toy dog – and I doubt he's willing to give that up either."

Hearing this, Samuel pulled both toys into his arms protectively and shook his head. "No!" he cried again. "They're mine."

"Sammy, dear," Lucy implored him, "you've got to try to share. It's not nice to keep everything for yourself."

"NO!"

"I say, what on earth is going on in here?"

Mary and Lucy turned in surprise to see the matron standing in the door way.

"Samantha!" Lucy gasped. "We are terribly sorry. Tommy wouldn't sleep, just kept crying and Samuel won't give him his toy back and–"

"And now you're trying to find some other toy for the baby," Samantha interrupted, which in itself was highly unusually for the generally soft-hearted and jolly matron.

Both of the younger women looked slightly abashed at this. Samantha, however, did not appear to notice. She walked over to Samuel's cot and stared down at him.

"They're mine," the boy repeated petulantly.

Instead of trying to talk to him as Mary had; Samantha simply reached down, spun the boy around and delivered two sharp swats to his bottom.

Samuel dropped the toys in shock. Samantha Cole had, after all, always seemed to be the least likely worker in the orphanage to prevent a child from getting their way – except, perhaps, Simon Hughes.

Spinning the boy around again, the matron pulled him sharply out of his cot, placed him on her hip, and (with the toy monkey in her other hand) marched over to Tom's cot.

"Give Tom his toy," she said.

Samuel stared at her. "No."

"Samuel," Samantha repeated. "Give Tom his toy."

Apparently realising that this was one battle he was not going to win, Samuel's shoulders slumped.

Samantha nodded. "Now give it back to him," she said, holding the monkey out to the toddler.

Samuel responded by snatching it and dropping it into the cot. Tom, however was not expecting a large, white, fluffy thing to fall on him out of nowhere.

"Waaaaah!"

Without hesitating, Mary scooped him up and began murmuring soothing words to him.

Samantha then turned so that Samuel was facing her co-workers. "Now," she said. "Say goodnight to Mary and Lucy."

The little boy hung his head. "Night M'ry, night Lucy."

"And to the others," the matron added.

"Night," he repeated, though he now sounded more irritated than apologetic.

"Good boy," Samantha said, as she put him back in his own cot and tucked him in with his toy dog. "Now sleep."

Then, with a quiet nod to Mary and Lucy, she left. …and if anyone noticed how wheezy her voice had sounded in the end, no one mentioned it. Just like they didn't mention the hacking coughs they heard in the hallway shortly after her footsteps stopped.

As for Tom: he slept peacefully through the rest of the night (except, of course, for the short time around one in the morning when he'd wanted to be fed… and the time around four thirty when his nappy had needed changing), completely unaware that for quite some time after the matron had left, Samuel had lain awake glaring in his direction.

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A/N: I do not require reviews, nor shall I beg for them. However, I shall certainly not object to them.


	6. Teething: July 14th, 1927

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The quote near the end (read by Martha) is from Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and Martha makes reference to Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal – which I neither own nor am making any money on. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

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Chapter Six: Teething

Already exhausted, Mary slumped in her seat. Although the movement of the train as it left Vauxhall Station was soothing, she knew she couldn't afford to go back to sleep – not with sixty orphans to watch over and without a full staff. Samantha Cole's son, Henry, and husband, Harold, had elected to remain in the city – Henry to remain at the orphanage in case someone should arrive and to do some cleaning; Harold to work the small family shop down the road from the orphanage which supplemented the Coles' wages (and, when possible, the orphanage donations).

"Tommy, Tommy; look!"

Mary smiled faintly. In the seat next to her, one of the older orphans – a girl called Agatha Marshall – had little Tom Riddle seated comfortably in her lap. The seat across from her was empty, as three year old Samuel was standing in front of Agatha, trying to 'explain' to Tom how to play with a toy monkey – which Samuel was waving through the air in front of Tom and making 'whoosh' noises for.

Tom giggled and clapped his hands sloppily. The six month old boy seemed to have completely forgotten the incident months ago when Sammy had taken his toy. Sammy, on the other hand, probably still remembered it; both Mary and Lucy reminded him of it every time he took a toy someone else was playing with. It had resulted in the 'ask first' rule. This, thankfully, did not cause many problems, as Samuel liked Tom's monkey and Tom was happy to let him play with it as long as he included Tom in the game. Or, at least, he gave that impression. They couldn't really tell what the baby thought of anything, after all.

"Where're we going, Mary?" asked the seven year old boy on Agatha's other side, as he swung his legs.

Mary sighed. "We are taking the train to Dover, in Kent."

"Oh," he replied. There was a pause. "Why?"

"Because there's a lovely little town near the sea there, which isn't overcrowded by travellers the way Margate is."

"But why are we going there?" he asked.

Mary resisted the urge to put her head in her hands – understandable only because she had explained this twice previously on the way to the station. "Because," she said, "Mrs. Cole and the staff feel that it is good to get you all out of London for a little while once a year."

"Oh," the little boy repeated.

Sharing an amused glance with Agatha, Mary relaxed marginally; relieved that little Chester Bullock's insatiable curiosity had finally been sated.

"So why Dover?" Chester asked as he swung his legs. "We went to a park-place-thing last year."

"Because we visit locations on a rotating schedule so you don't always go to the same place," Agatha cut in smoothly.

Mary flashed the seventeen year old an appreciative smile.

There was a yelp. Both Agatha and Mary turned to stare at the toddler who'd made the noise.

Samuel was glaring at Tom – this was made somewhat unimpressive, however, as he was also pouting slightly and rubbing his nose. Tommy, on the other hand, was holding his monkey against his little chest while gnawing on its ear.

Almost scared of the response she would get from the child who so enjoyed making mischief, Mary asked, "Sammy?"

"He thumps me," Sammy replied pitifully.

Tommy continued to stare at him, gnawing on his toy with concern.

Mary frowned slightly. "I'm sure he didn't mean to hit you, Samuel, he is still too little to do that on purpose, it was an accident."

"He thumps me," Sammy repeated, though it seemed…sadder…that time. "Misses monkey," he shrugged slightly. "Sammy misses Mummy and Tommy misses monkey." Then he paused and gave the baby an odd look. "Me never bit Mummy, dough."

Mary stared at him, doing her best to suppress the tight feeling in her throat that could easily been the start of a laugh or the urge to cry – she couldn't tell which. Once she had gotten over the shock of such a profound thought coming from the little boy, Mary sighed. "It's not his fault, Sammy. You ought not to be angry at Tom; he did not mean to be bad. It was an accident."

Samuel looked up at her sadly as he rubbed his nose. "Kiss owie better?" he asked quietly. "Mummy kisses owies better."

"Sammy?" a quiet voice cut in.

All of them turned to see who had spoken, even little Tom – although he did not move much as he was determined to keep his plush toy's ear in his mouth.

Arnold – only just four that week – raised one small hand in a clear 'come here' gesture. When Samuel toddled into reach, Arnold brought his hand to his mouth and used it to transfer the 'kiss' to the younger boy's nose.

"All better," he pronounced.

Mary glanced between the toddlers and Tom, who continued to chew while wearing an expression of mild discomfort, and sighed. It was shaping up to be an extremely long day.

* * *

An hour later – after several, failed, attempts to get Tom to eat his sieved peas – Mary decided that there weren't enough words in the English language to describe 'far-far-more-than-extremely-long'.

Mary sighed as she wiped sieved vegetable matter off her cheek with her handkerchief. "Tommy," she began sternly.

"Eh," Tom replied, managing to make the random syllable a very clear and emphatic 'no'. He then stubbornly returned the monkey's (now rather slobbery) ear to his mouth.

Mary, however, had been noticing his increasingly uncomfortable expression for more than an hour and had – in that time – learned that he was not wet, hungry, thirsty, tired or bored. Unfortunately, that left ill as the most likely explanation.

Trying not to sigh again – she had been doing that far too much recently – Mary shouldered Tom's nappy bag and cradled the boy (and his monkey) in her arms. Then, with a quick explanation to Agatha and a stern warning to the little ones to behave, she stepped out of the compartment and into the corridor (and she was very glad this train had a corridor in the coach, as she remembered when they did not) to find Dr. Elder.

There were sixty-nine of them travelling from the orphanage that day – Sir John Blackwood was accompanying them, to show his 'dedication' to helping the 'unfortunate', but not one of the orphanage workers believed a word of it. The man was – although Mary hated to speak ill of anyone – as Martha had so aptly put it, a painted peacock.

Tom made a little noise of discomfort and Mary gently felt his forehead – his temperature seemed normal, but she wasn't a doctor.

Mary glanced up and down the coach corridor. They had divided themselves over nine compartments as equally as possible – all third class and seating eight – but she wasn't entirely sure which Martha was in. Each staff member was in a separate compartment – and the compartments were spread over two coaches, but this train (thankfully) was modern enough to have corridor connectors – with a number of the oldest children (anyone above fourteen years) to help care for their charges. She, herself, was temporarily leaving Agatha in charge of two eleven year olds, two toddlers and a seven year old.

Tommy whimpered through his toy's ear.

Mary frowned, she knew Helen Hackett was the staff member in charge of the third compartment – and that was in the other coach – while Lucy, she thought, was in compartment six; but she wasn't certain which coach that compartment was in. Mary shook her head: she had compartment seven, which wasn't next to the corridor connector, so Lucy had to be on the same coach. Jonathan, however, had refused to be in the same coach as Lucy (he was still depressed over the way she had left him), Sir John, however, had been on the same coach as Lucy so…

Suddenly Mary felt extraordinarily stupid. They hadn't been able to divide everyone equally over the nine compartments, so Martha would be in compartment nine – the compartment with the least children in it.

"Sometimes," she said to the baby, "Miss Mary can be quite silly, can't she?"

Tom looked up at her unhappily, his face semi-obscured by the fluffy toy he held and his eyes, peering curiously just over the monkey's head, appeared pitch black in the dim light. The train had modern electrical lights, but it was still far dimmer than outside, where the sunshine hitting Tom's face would have made it clear his eyes were blue.

Tom sniffled, drawing Mary out of her musings. Her sad smile becoming a frown, she hurried down the corridor to compartment nine. Thankfully, not many people seemed to be travelling on the train that day, as Martha's only companions in the compartment were four of the older orphans. Martha, herself, was engrossed in her book and apparently completely unaware of her surroundings.

Mary coughed slightly to get her attention.

Martha looked up and – upon catching sight of the tiny figure squirming in Mary's arms – slipped a bookmark between the pages before snapping the book shut. She raised an eyebrow, acutely observing the infant. "Symptoms?"

Mary sat carefully in the empty seat to Martha's left. "He has been out of sorts all day – cranky – but he doesn't cry; he just keeps staring at me as if he's asking why I'm not helping him!" Here she paused – keenly aware that she was venting her frustration by becoming louder (which was scaring Tom), that Martha's facial expression clearly said she was being irrational (Martha viewed logic as a function of higher beings which, if one was emotional, one wasn't) and that Tom was dribbling again (lately he'd been doing that more often than usual). With a sigh, Mary carefully wiped the dribble from Tom's mouth.

Martha's eyes never strayed from the baby and when she spoke it was with cold exactitude. "You know perfectly well that children of that age can not even think such things. I work with facts, not flights of your over-emotional fancy. The symptoms, if you please."

Tom stared back at her, gnawing miserably on his monkey, saliva once again beginning to run down his chin.

Mary bit her lip, trying very hard to not be insulted by Martha's icy and dismissive attitude – but she didn't like being treated as if she were less intelligent, especially since Martha was younger than she was and had less experience with children.

Tom made a little whimpering noise and took more of his monkey's ear into his mouth. The slight crinkling of Martha's nose made it very clear what she thought of that.

"He's cranky, he acts like he's about to cry, he won't take the monkey out of his mouth, but he won't accept his pacifier, he won't eat and he _looks_ unhappy," Mary bit out.

"Pacifiers are meant to be sucked on, not gnawed on," Martha said, as if it were blatantly obvious why that was important.

"Martha?" Mary asked, exasperated.

"He's teething," Martha said and moved to pick up her book.

Mary flushed and swelled slightly with anger and indignation. "And you can tell just like that, without even checking his temperature to see if he has a cold or something? Even though I did not notice such a thing and I have had fifteen years of experience working with children of his age-group? You presume to suddenly be an expert?"

Martha, however, showed no sign of being at all affected by Mary's display of offence. She merely raised an eyebrow and replied; "Since you came to me for help, I believe you have already admitted that you think I will be better able to understand than you do."

Mary opened and closed her mouth several times, her face flushing further and contrasting sharply with her blonde hair.

"Furthermore," Martha continued, "I am well aware of your experience caring for children – you started when you were seven, I believe, caring for your younger siblings because both your parents needed to work."

"Now see here," Mary started to say, but Martha simply continued to talk over her.

"Finally, since you came to me for a medical opinion and I am a doctor, there is nothing sudden or pretentious about my diagnosis. However, if you feel my study of the patient was not…_tactile_ enough, you may certainly hand him over."

Mary's first instinct was to pull Tom closer protectively, but that – she was certain – would just make Martha think her more ridiculous than she clearly already did. Worse still, she had gone to Martha for a medical opinion, so she could hardly put her pride before a little boy's health – even if she was going to take him to Samantha afterward because Martha's arrogance could make her miss the real problem. So, doing her best to convey her displeasure without voicing it, Mary carefully handed the baby to her colleague.

Martha, looking distinctly unimpressed, pulled the toy monkey out of Tom's mouth and reach without hesitation.

It was at this point that Tom really did begin to cry.

"Martha!" Mary cried, aghast. "You can't just take a baby's toy!"

Martha, however, simply took Tom's lower jaw gently in her hand and held his mouth open for inspection. Whatever the reason, Tom was too stunned at that point to keep crying and simply stared up at the strange, new big person instead. Apparently satisfied with what she'd seen – or, possibly, hadn't seen – Martha released his jaw and gave him his monkey. Tom immediately took an ear into his mouth again.

Martha looked up at her co-worker again. "He is most definitely teething. I am quite certain you know how to deal with that," she said.

Mary looked at the infant unhappily. "He could choke like that," she muttered. Louder, however, she replied, "I have two toddlers to watch over for the day as well as three other children and only one of the older children to help me. I can not afford to watch over a fussy infant at the same time, he would need too much of my time and I–"

"I don't need excuses, Mary," Martha said, coolly. "I will not object to watching over one brat if it is necessary." Then she paused, evidently considering Mary's first statement. Then carefully she extracted the monkey's ear from Tom' mouth, assisting Tom to hold the monkey around its waist instead, and (before Tom could begin to cry, although he'd gotten to the sniffling) slipped two of her fingers carefully into the boy's mouth. After a few moments, Tom seemed to realise they were there for him to gnaw on and relaxed.

Soon after, Mary nodded to her co-worker and left.

* * *

When Mary next spoke to the doctor, they had reached their destination. Martha was sitting on a bench where she had a clear view of the sea (and the picnicking inhabitants of the orphanage, on the grass nearby). She had a book open in one hand and in the other was an ice lolly being held in place not only by her hand, but also by the two tiny hands of a far more content Tom Riddle than the one Mary had left with her.

Mary frowned. "Surely that can not be good for him," she stated, staring down at the pair of them.

Martha glanced up from her book with a raised eyebrow and the tiniest hint of a smirk. "It is ice, Mary, it numbs his mouth so he doesn't feel the pain of the teeth beginning to come through – and it tastes sweet, so it keeps him happy. I was quite surprised to learn we had similar tastes"

Mary blinked. "…similar tastes?" she repeated.

Martha actually did smirk at that point; her second eyebrow joining the first in what (without the smirk) might have passed for an innocent expression. "Indeed," she said. "It would seem that both Tom and I are fond of grape."

Mary frowned again. "The staff agreed that we weren't going to buy ice creams because we couldn't afford one for every orphan. You knew that."

Martha gently pulled the ice lolly from Tom's mouth and sucked on it for a moment before giving it back to Tom. "But this is a medical matter, Mary."

Mary glowered at her for a moment. "You are supposed to be watching your charges, not reading."

"I am reading to Tom," Martha said calmly. "It was a pleasure to meet someone else who appreciates literature."

"What is it?" Mary asked, trying to make the conversation cordial again.

"_A Modest Proposal_, an essay by Jonathan Swift. He suggested that the impoverished ought to sell their unnecessary children to the rich as food. It would have saved a lot of people from their problems," Martha replied pleasantly.

"That's horrid!" Mary exclaimed.

"Including your parents," Martha continued. "Or they could just have used contraception."

Mary flushed with fury. "My parents followed God's will."

"But copulation for pleasure instead of reproduction is also supposed to be against 'God's will' and your parents surely would have stopped when they ran out of money if they had cared about that."

Mary threw her hands up in the air and stormed away.

Tom giggled, although it came out muffled by the ice lolly.

Martha looked down at Tom with a stern expression. "I did not intend to like you: I hope you are aware of that."

Tom smiled up at her around his ice lolly.

"Now," Martha said, lifting her book again, "where was I?"

Not too far away, an ice cream vendor looked over to the bench under a tree, whence a clear, feminine, voice was carried on the wind.

"My feet often slipped upon this viscous carpet of sea-weed, and without my iron-tipped stick I should have fallen more than once. In turning round, I could still see the whitish lantern of the _Nautilus _beginning to pale in the distance…"


	7. Dennis Bishop: October 4th, 1927

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**

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Chapter Seven: Dennis Bishop

Tom sat in the centre of a circle of women staring up at them curiously. The women, who Martha was sure had better things to do than crowd her infirmary unnecessarily, were mainly focused on each other – even though the subject of their discussion was Tom himself.

"Really, Mary, you worry too much: it's not unusual for children to not be walking yet," Samantha said.

Mary sniffed in displeasure. "Not walking, certainly, I can understand that. But Tom's not even standing yet – that is not normal."

"Perhaps he is simply unintelligent?" Lucy offered.

Mary shook her head, frustrated. "Honestly, Lucy, have you ever watched him playing? He's not stupid – if anything he's unusually bright. No, I am quite certain – it must be a medical problem. What is more, considering the way he was–"

"I have told you already: I can not find anything medically wrong with him or his legs. Therefore, this is not my problem," Martha snapped, looking up from her desk across the room. "Now _kindly leave_. This is an infirmary – you have a staffroom downstairs to chatter in."

Lucy, Mary and Samantha seemed quite content to ignore this.

"Nevertheless, he could be mentally deficient," Lucy insisted. "It would not have been noticeable when being observed for physical problems."

"No, no, no," Mary replied, frustrated. "He is clearly showing all the signs of being intelligent. He recognizes more words at the moment than most do at his age. Look at him. Tom."

Tom immediately looked up at her and smiled brightly.

"As you can clearly see," Mary told Lucy, almost scolding in tone, "he knows his own name and responds to it. If he had _that_ sort of difficulties he would not be capable of that."

Eleanor looked around her older colleagues silently. However, before she could voice an opinion, the sound of one of the older orphans shouting reached the room. "MRS. SAMANTHA! MRS. SAMANTHA! THE STORK'S BEEN BY AGAIN!"

Eleanor shook her head as she followed the other women in their sudden rush from the room. As far as she was concerned, using the euphemism of the stork making a delivery as code for the arrival of another abandoned child was a kindness the orphans deserved to have, but she could never understand why they matron insisted the children call her Mrs. Samantha instead of Mrs. Cole.

* * *

Dr. Elder sighed almost imperceptibly as the door slammed shut. After a moment she began shuffling the papers on her desk, mentally going over what she would need to check while examining the new arrival.

Tom looked around in confusion and sucked on his pacifier in what seemed to be deep thought – or, at least, what counts for deep thought in nine month old infants. He couldn't understand why all the nice ladies had suddenly left. He knew he'd been getting attention – which he liked – even though he wasn't sure why they had put him on the floor – the _cold _floor – and been patting their legs while babbling at him. They had stopped after a while, but then they started ignoring him in favour of making loud voices. Tom didn't like loud voices. But then the nice woman with the yellow hair and said his name …then she started ignoring him in favour of the loud tall people again.

Tom sucked on his pacifier thoughtfully as he looked around the room. He was alone except for the cold woman with the funny toys. But she was bent over her big brown thing and not paying attention to him. Had he been older he might have thought about getting her attention. As it was, however, he did not think about it.

He merely began to scoot himself across the room – toward the nearest bed frame – on his bottom. He didn't know why the big people always tried to make him move around on his long bits. He knew they could do that, but they only used two whereas they wanted him to use all four. He could never have expressed this in a way older humans could have understood, though, since the thoughts – for lack of a better term – weren't conceptual the way older human's are.

The big person with the brown hair only glanced up briefly during Tom's sojourn, merely moving her eyes slightly and then raising an eyebrow. Tom knew she did that often.

Upon reaching his destination – directly between the ends of two beds, but still in the doctor's immediate view upon looking up – Tom firmly grasped the beds' legs with his tiny hands and stood.

Martha stopped writing and turned her head fully up to meet Tom's eyes, which were bright with happiness and humour. "You little brat," she said, her tone clearly portraying surprise and amusement. "You knew how to do that the whole time, didn't you?"

Tom, around his pacifier, graced her with a brilliant smile.

Then, however, he did something far more daring. He let go of the bed frame on his right and he tried to mimic the movements he had seen in bigger people so often. Tentatively, he lifted his left leg and extended it. Then, his movements almost painfully slow, he placed the tips of his left toes on the floor in front of him.

Tom did not understand the expression Martha wore – the look in her eyes and the slight curl of her mouth – but an older observer would have labelled it as pleasure at being allowed to see his first step or a sort of pride, perhaps (if they did not know who they were talking about) even maternal. Tom just knew he liked it – not in the least because her attention was now focused solely on him.

Encouraged by this, Tom moved faster, raising his right leg the same way. Unfortunately, to place it further forward than his left, he had to let go of the bed he was using for balance. Tom, however, was not particularly concerned by this.

It happened in an instant. In placing weight on his right foot he overshot his balance and the left slipped out form under him.

"TOM!"

His right followed immediately, as he scrambled to stay upright. The pacifier (it had dropped from his mouth – which was open from shock) hit the floor moments before he did.

The good doctor hadn't even the chance to stand before it was over. Tom had landed flat on his face and lay there, apparently too stunned to cry out, as blood pooled under the nose which had, second only to his forehead, taken the brunt of the fall. His pacifier poked at him unpleasantly from underneath his belly.

Within moments the doctor lifted him, wiping his nose clean gently with her handkerchief. The nosebleed, however, was a minor injury – in comparison to the painful looking large red blotch on his forehead, which would indubitably bruise.

_His head,_ she hypothesised, _must have been what tipped his balance, too big and heavy with too much forward momentum and not nearly enough control. Amazing he stayed up so long – normally they fall almost immediately, _Martha frowned: _normally they fall on their bottoms. _

Tom just whimpered and tried to bury his face in her shoulder to avoid her cleaning, poking and prodding.

Dr. Elder, however, would not allow it. Deftly, she held his head still with the arm that was holding him on her hip, while the other brought her dampened handkerchief across his nose to wipe away the remaining blood. Spiting into a handkerchief might not have been standard medical practise, but it got the cloth wet enough to wipe off the blood and she didn't have any spare hands.

Thankfully, she did have a sink in the back of her infirmary and – after, cautiously, putting Tom down on her desk; he wasn't pleased – rinsed her handkerchief, as well as finding a small washcloth to properly clean Tom's nose (hopefully the cold water would also help reduce bruising) and wetting a second to hold against his forehead.

Once safely enclosed in her arms again, with a cool washcloth on his aching head, Tom sniffled.

Martha, who didn't hold with idiocy, sharply replied: "It's your own fault, you buffoon."

At that moment the infirmary door opened again.

"If you are not dying or bleeding over the carpet, go down to the kitchens and get me a small piece of butter," Martha said, not looking up to see who was at the door.

Samantha frowned. "Oh, did the poor dear get an owie?"

"No, I just feel like having a sandwich," Martha replied.

Samantha smiled and left, brushing past the returning troop of chattering orphanage workers as she did. This time, however, they had a small bundle with them.

"Oh, he is absolutely adorable!" Lucy cooed.

Sinking behind her desk with Tom in her lap, Martha pulled out the appropriate papers for the new records. "What information do we have on it?" she asked briskly.

"A male infant," Mary replied, just as brusque and perhaps a bit brisker. "Left on the steps, with a letter – the boy's name, but no contact details."

"Hardly surprising," Eleanor said, "they wouldn't leave him here if they wanted him back, would they?"

"Name and age?" Martha said, ignoring Eleanor's bitter comment.

"Where did Samantha go?" Lucy asked, suddenly. "She is usually here for this."

"Dennis Bishop – two 'n's in Dennis, he looks to be about a week old," Mary stated, too professional to be sad at that moment. "He doesn't seem to have suffered any negative effects from being left out in the cold, but you had better check."

Tom watched Martha's pen move across the papers in fascination, forgetting for a short time how sore his head actually was.

"He needs to be weighed and measured regardless, but it must wait," the Doctor said, then, to Lucy, "and she is retrieving a small portion of butter."

Lucy, satisfied with this, returned to cooing over the new arrival.

Martha, who could hear Lucy cooing to Dennis (who Eleanor was holding) clearer than Mary (who actually had important information for the records), slammed her pen down on the table. "This is an infirmary, not a play-pen." She snapped, "If it is not strictly necessary that you are here, get out."

Samantha entered with the requested butter.

Lucy glared at the doctor. "Since you do not seem interested in taking care of your patient, we seem to be," she sneered – an ugly expression on her normally sweet face.

As Martha took the butter from the matron and gently applied it to Tom's forehead, she coldly replied, "I am looking after my patient. I prioritise. If the new brat is not currently dying, he is not _my_ problem."

* * *

Eleanor sighed. She sat with Tom on an otherwise empty bed while Martha examined Dennis. The doctor's displeasure was evident in her blunt, one-word replies, but she never allowed it to interfere with her work.

Samantha and Mary were at the doctor's desk; Samantha finishing the official records for Dennis, Mary taking notes for Martha. Lucy, on the other hand, appeared determined to be petty; standing in the centre of the infirmary and constantly questioning Martha's statements.

Finally, once Dennis' examination was over, Eleanor stood. Samantha needed to put her copies of the records in her office, so Eleanor would be helping Mary and Lucy to reorganise the nursery to account for the new baby's bassinet.

Tom, apparently, did not approve of this plan, as he managed to slide off the bed and, once standing, take two shaky steps to latch onto Eleanor's legs. Rather stunned, and with an incredulous glance at Martha (who looked rather smug, in an almost imperceptible way), Eleanor picked him up.

Tom, as all infants are wont to do, reached out and pulled her hair. Unfortunately, the energetic nine-month-old put all of his strength into the tug and it not only pulled her bun out most of the way, it also hurt a fair bit.

Eleanor shrieked in surprise. "You little _monster_!"

Tom jerked slightly at the loud noise, once again pulling Eleanor's hair in the process.

Dennis, on the other hand, began to wail. It was evident very soon that he was blessed with a large set of lungs.

"I know understand what you meant, Mary," Martha said, expressionless.

"What?" Mary asked, more than a little confused.

"The devil truly comes in many forms."

Mary rolled her eyes in exasperation as Lucy began to coo at the wailing infant. "Why," she asked rhetorically, "do I even bother trying to talk to you?"

Martha plucked Tom from Eleanor's loose grip. "Malignant foolishness, indubitably. Quite possibly also terminal." She then dumped the older boy on an empty bed and shoved her stethoscope into his little hands. "Here," she said, "be quiet."

Mary pursed her lips, but did not comment. Instead she turned to Lucy. "We'd best get the little one settled in." She stalked out of the room, immediately followed by Samantha, who was going to her office.

Lucy was still cooing at the infant. "What beautiful blond hair you have, yes you do!"

Eleanor frowned. "Most infants have blond hair, Lucy, even I know that."

Lucy pulled the boy closer, almost protectively. "At least I know how to my job," she sneered.

"Then, perhaps, you should _do_ it," Martha said.

Lucy flushed and fled the room.

There was a distinct pause.

"She is pouting because of Jonathan. Ignore it," the doctor advised, bending over to check Tom's bruising forehead.

"She is still holding a grudge?" Eleanor asked.

Martha's head shot up and her piercing gaze fixed on her co-worker. Not for the first time, Eleanor felt as if the doctor was looking straight through her.  
"She is not the only one," Martha finally replied.

Eleanor wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

Martha nodded to the mirror by the sink. "Fix your hair and be glad he did not choose to aim for your earrings. The children do not need more reason to convince themselves that I enjoy torturing people."

Eleanor winced slightly in sympathy; she knew all too well that there had been particularly unpleasant rumours spreading among the children ever since Mrs. Riddle's body had been removed. She was going to have to tell Samantha to do something about it, it was simply inappropriate.

Suddenly, while fixing her hair, she understood what Martha had been implying. "It would be irrational to hold a grudge against a toddler," she said firmly.

Abruptly, Martha left Tom on the bed and walked over to one of her locked cupboards. "Gin or whiskey?" she asked bluntly.

Eleanor looked at her in surprise. But Martha merely waved her hand in a gesture that seemed to imply that Eleanor should pull over the chair used for infirmary visitors, sit down and bloody well shut up.

Martha filled two shot-glasses halfway, firmly placing the Gin bottle on her desk before sitting behind her desk. She raised her glass thoughtfully, observing Eleanor – who was sitting across from her – over it.

"You hate him because he embarrassed you on your first night here," the doctor stated, blunt as ever.

Eleanor blinked. "It would be ridiculous to blame and infant for my making a bad first impression," she said, dismissively.

"You needed someone to blame," Martha replied, coolly.

"Gagba!" Tom interjected.

Martha waved her free hand at him dismissively. "Irrelevant," she said, as if Tom had actually made a sensible contribution to the conversation. "It was neither a first impression, nor a bad one."

Eleanor merely shook her head in silence – there was a difference between being one of the orphans and being one of the staff.

Martha regarded her co-worker with her penetrating green eyes and leaned back in her chair. "She was impressed." They both knew she meant the matron.

Eleanor looked up from her untouched glass in surprise.

"On your first night, you helped a severely ill woman – correctly identifying her problem in moments – and aided in a surgery you were not qualified for, you kept your head under the pressure and were competent in caring for the newborn – which is Mary and Lucy's job, not yours. What is more, you decided to stay here, instead of moving away with your fiancé, yet there was nothing stopping you from starting a life of your own far from bad memories. Most are eager to leave," Martha elucidated. "She was impressed, Eleanor."

"Mary and Lucy are not," Eleanor replied slowly, still digesting Martha's explanation.

Martha downed her shot and Eleanor followed the suit. Martha watched her impassively. "Mary is almost impossible to please and she doesn't see you as an equal yet," she finally conceded.

Eleanor rolled her empty glass between her hands. "Just a little girl who needs to be taught a lesson," she said bitterly.

"Playing dress-up," Martha corrected. "Lucy has yet to fully re-categorize you as a colleague, not an orphan under her care."

"Will I ever be fully accepted here?" Eleanor asked.

Martha actually gave a sharp, bark-like laugh at that point. "_Lucy_ will accept anything except the words 'I think you've had enough to drink' or a marriage proposal," she said. The momentary reveal that the doctor actually knew how to laugh was over as suddenly as it had come. Dr. Elder considered the woman before her analytically before offering a serious answer. "You're organizational skills are an asset and you have good ideas on how to make this place run better, for less," she said finally.

Eleanor looked at her shrewdly, clearly aware there was something Martha had not said.

Martha silently poured them each a second shot. It was only once she raised her glass that she spoke again. "It took them time to accept me, Eleanor, I was a female doctor and this place is fairly conservative," she explained. Then she gave her co-worker a significant look over her shot-glass. "When I was studying, I was the only woman intending to become a doctor. In class one day someone made a comment about how nice my hair would look under a nurse's cap _where it belonged_." Martha looked at Eleanor sharply, as if to be sure her companion was getting the point. "That night, after several of these," she tipped the glass of Gin slightly, "I gave myself a haircut."

Eleanor blinked. In spite of her left-wing political views and the fact that she was a doctor, Eleanor had never imagined Martha ever doing something so wild in her youth – never imagined her having had a wild youth.

After a few moments' silent contemplation, Eleanor drained her glass and – with an almost imperceptible nod to Martha – left. Somehow, she got the distinct feeling that she had just been accepted as 'one of the boys'. …she was definitely going to have to learn to hold her Gin better.

Martha, conversely, leaned back in her chair, turning the still full glass in her hand while observing the empty space where Eleanor had been so intently, almost as if she could still see her there.

"Are you, Eleanor?" she murmured. "I wonder."

On a bed nearby, Tom rolled over in his sleep, cuddling the stethoscope.

* * *

**A/N:** As always, reviews are appreciated, but not required.

**To M.P. Whitman, who did review:** thank you – I appreciate that you took the time to tell me what you thought and am quite thrilled to know you are enjoying it. Although I hope it doesn't make you too sad. Yes, Tom's very cute at the moment, isn't he? It's really a pity that he had to grow up.


	8. Almost Like Magic: 31,12,27 and 01,01,28

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. Further, the quote near the end of the chapter comes from Niccoló Machiavelli's _The Prince_ (page 68), which I neither own nor make money off. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

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Chapter Eight: Almost Like Magic

Tommy Riddle was having a very good day. Although both Mary and Lucy (and he'd been very pleased with himself when he'd figured out what those two words meant) had been paying less attention to him since the new baby (a word he couldn't say and didn't like) had come, he'd been woken by Lucy, who cooed over him far more than he could recall her ever doing. Then, in the dining hall, he'd been stood on a chair (though Mary insisted on holding him to keep him from falling) and the entire orphanage had sung to him. He wasn't entirely sure what 'birthday' was, but it had to be a good thing since they all kept calling it 'happy'.

This wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, either, just the first time it was him – and most of the others had certainly smiled, so Tommy had smiled too. Even when one of the bigger boys – not one of the biggest boys, but much bigger than Tommy – had sung something about 'lookike' and his 'mokey' instead and the stern lady named Eleanor had led him out by the ear. Tommy _had _made sure to hold tightly to Mokey when the boy came back, even though the boy was rubbing his bottom and didn't seem interested in taking Mokey anymore. That was after the song ended, so Tom had heard Eleanor say something to the other boy about 'again and it's ten with the hairbrush'. Tom wasn't sure what those sounds meant, but the boy hadn't looked at Mokey again at all.

Later the pretty woman with the funny toys – who Tom was reasonably sure was called Tha – had grudgingly taken him out with her to the 'Kem-est', whatever that was, to get some 'coof-droops' because one of the girls was cold. Apparently she was also getting him a 'lit-soming' because it was his happy birthday. Tha, however, did not seem pleased. Nevertheless, directly after lunch she'd bundled them both up warmly and taken him outside.

Outside had been very pretty, as there was lots of white stuff that Tha had called 'Oh' – it had been very cold.

After visiting the Kem-est, which was very new – especially because Tha had let him look around while she was talking to the other big person in white and Tom was quite sure some of the words they'd used were too long for anyone, even big people, to understand – they had gone to a much more interesting place where Tha was going to get Tom a 'lit-soming'. Tom had chattered happily and pointed, even though Tha wouldn't let him have anything he wanted: she kept saying something about how he'd 'oke', but he had recognised 'no' so he had an good idea of what she meant, which was odd since she'd left with several bottles of the stuff. But she also had said they weren't for him.

It had seemed like nothing was for him: he'd 'oke' on most things and everything else was either 'too spensive' or bad because it was cold like the Oh outside. Eventually, she had bought another small bottle of the 'oke' and opened it, only giving it too him once all the pretty bubbles had gone out. Tom wasn't exactly sure why she'd given him 'oke' if she was afraid he'd 'oke' on all the other nice looking things, but the ugly liquid tasted sweet and good, so he was quite happy with it.

Tom also had not understood why everyone who had seen him had insisted on telling Tha that his walking or his talking were 'mazy'. Nor why Tha had been so upset when an old man had pointed to him and said something about Tha and her 'sun', whatever that was.

Tom had been sad for a little while when he'd finished his 'oke', but had quickly realized that the bottle was fun to spin. Mary had taken it away as soon as she'd seen it, but Tommy hadn't minded that much. Especially when he got to have a little bit more after 'din-dins' – it didn't really taste the same, more like water than 'oke', but it was nice and that time everyone else had a little bit too.

He'd been sent to bed as usual, even though the older people kept talking about it being a special night because of a new ear or something… Tom understood very little of what the big people were always babbling about.

Tom hadn't been able to sleep – there were far too many interesting noises coming from the rest of the building and, eventually, he – and the five others in the nu-sor-e – and been taken downstairs by Mary and Lucy. Apparently they'd decided to let the 'liluns' stay with them and the oldest orphans because they didn't want them to wake up alone during the night.

Which led to where he was now: in the 'stuff-room', with the other 'unda fivs' and the 'ova fifeens' and the 'stuff' (not Tha, though). The old people were all waiting for the new ear to arrive at minnite, while Gertie and Lizzie were asleep in a chair and he was playing with Arnie, Sammy and Mokey.

Actually, he wasn't in the 'stuff-room', as he thought it was called, at all. The little boys were playing in the corridor while the older children slept and the oldest children drank the remaining watered-down Coca-Cola – the staff had champagne, courtesy of Sir John Blackwood.

Tom giggled as he ran between the two older boys. He was getting a bit tired, and it was a little late, but he was having too much fun to stop. Arnold and Samuel were tossing his toy monkey between them, a game of monkey in the middle where Tom – not his toy monkey – was the one in the middle. The idea was that whoever had thrown the monkey would be in the middle if the 'monkey' in the middle caught it. Unfortunately for Tom's little legs, he hadn't managed to catch it once and he'd _started_ in the middle.

About ten minutes earlier Lucy had opened the door properly to check on them, asking if they weren't tired yet, to which Tom had replied with a delighted "No!" – It was one of the few words he could actually say and which he seemed to adore using.

However now, after almost fifteen minutes playing a game he couldn't win, Tom was becoming increasingly frustrated with his inability to get his toy back from the older boys.

Arnold tossed the toy to Samuel, who caught it before Tommy had managed to take two steps toward him and immediately tossed it back to Arnold; forcing Tom to pivot (barely) mid-step and try to reach Arnold. Still giggling, Arnold tossed the monkey back to Samuel.

Tom actually tried to catch it out of the air, pushing himself up as much as possible, but only succeeded in falling on his (thankfully, nappy-padded) bottom. Unharmed, but further irritated, he stood – just in time to see the toy fly by him again.

Tom did his best to get to it before Arnold, but he honestly didn't have a chance.

Arnold tossed it.

Tom turned.

Samuel tossed it.

Tom spun around again trying to see who had it.

Arnold.

Samuel.

Arnold.

Samuel.

Suddenly extremely tired, Tom stopped directly between the other two boys.

"Tommy?" Sammy called. "Tommy, look, Sammy's got it! Tommy, come on! Sammy's got monkey!" The older boy waved the monkey around in front of him, trying to get Tommy to play again.

But Tom was having none of it. His face scrunched up with confusion, fury and irritation, the boy began to cry. He was far too tired to deal with this. He _knew_ Sammy had his Mokey – he wanted it _back_.

Moments later, Dr. Elder appeared at the bottom of the stairs – having left the party much earlier to check on the girl who was spending the night in the infirmary with a cold.

"M-mokey," Tom choked out, reaching blindly for his toy with both little arms outstretched.

Sammy, however, was only four and a half himself and failed to get the point. "I've got Mokey, Tommy, you've got to catch him before Arnie does, 'member?"

"Mokey," Tom sobbed. "Mokey! Moke-eyy!"

Lucy opened the door in surprise and stared out at them.

"Come get Monkey, Tommy," Sammy said. "Come get him."

"MOKEYYY!" Shrill and hoarse, it was more of a scream than a sob.

Samuel dropped the toy.

It hit the floor with a thump and stopped moving.

Tom sniffled. "Mokey?" he mumbled, miserable, still reaching for his toy.

Suddenly, the toy slid toward him, hovering effortlessly (and steadily) just above the floor. Halfway between Samuel and Tom, the toy returned to the floor with a tiny 'plop', as if it had suddenly run out of energy.

Tommy legs gave out and he sat down heavily on the floor, exhaustion suddenly overtaking him. But neither Lucy nor the two older boys had noticed the toy float – only that it had moved – and Tommy was too young to be aware such things were not possible. Moreover, he was too concerned with getting his monkey back to care.

"Samuel Chase!" Lucy cried, aghast. "You do not kick other people's toys!"

Sammy blinked at her, confused, as he'd done nothing of the sort – he'd only dropped it.

"You apologise right now, young man!"

Tom crawled the rest of the way to his toy, feeling oddly depleted. "Mokey," he mumbled, holding it close.

Lucy looked between Tom, Samuel and Arnold (who had moved to stand with his friend) uncertainly. She knew she should send Samuel to bed for being naughty, even more that Tom needed to sleep, but she couldn't leave them upstairs alone and really didn't want to leave the party. Worse still, there was no way Tom would sleep with all the loud conversations in the staffroom.

"He is fatigued."

Lucy actually jumped slightly from surprise. It might have been because – of everyone – she had been the one to drink the most champagne. Gasping slightly, she placed a hand over her heart. "Oh! Martha. You scared me."

Martha didn't even raise an eyebrow as she stepped out of the shadows. "The boy is fatigued. He should not have been allowed to stay up this long. You take the troublemakers into the party with you – punish them tomorrow, if it is necessary. I shall take the other one. Give my apologies to those at the party."

Lucy blinked, slightly baffled. "Are you certain you want to take care of a cranky toddler for the rest of the night, Martha?"

Martha actually did raise an eyebrow at that, although she seemed more amused than anything else. "I have a six year old with a cold who I must continually check on. The boy is exhausted: he can not possibly complain _more_ than she does." There was a tiny pause. "In fact, as he currently possesses a vocabulary of only four words, he certainly can not complain more."

Lucy sighed, but otherwise ignored the comment in favour of ushering the two older boys into the staffroom.

Martha, however, stood by the stairs – observing – as Lucy and the older boys left. From the angle she had been standing at, her view of the toy as it travelled had been the clearest – a side on view. That, coupled with the look on Samuel's face when he was accused of kicking it, made her quite sure that – somehow – the toy had been moved without human interference.

Slowly, she walked over to Tom and picked him up.

The toy had once been her little brother's – she knew it was not designed to move itself in any way. The doors had all been firmly closed – with the notable exception of the one leading to the staffroom; but if wind had gusted past Lucy and moved the toy not only would Lucy's skirt have moved, but the toy would have been send the opposite direction and hit Samuels legs – and there were no windows in the corridor to be left open. Moreover, it would have taken a very noticeable wind to move the toy – it was too heavy for a tiny breeze to knock it over.

Martha frowned as she walked up the stairs with the fatigued little boy in her arms.

_A toy moving itself, when it is not able to move on its own, is quite impossible. Yet, there is no way the wind could have done it, nor had Samuel kicked it – that much was evident. Toys, furthermore, do not float. But it had! A quarter inch off the floor, for several feet… completely defies the laws of physics. _

Martha walked into her infirmary and placed the boy in the bassinet she kept out for those five years old or younger. Looking down at him, she shook her head. He was clearly exhausted. He'd been tired and irritable before the toy had moved. But not too tired to scream and make a fuss. But after the toy had moved he'd, quite suddenly, been too tired to even stand. Children did not normally drop from exhaustion without warning…as if the energy had suddenly been drained from him.

_It could have been the Coca-Cola,_ Martha mused, _but considering the time elapsed that is highly unlikely. _

"Dr. Elder?" murmured a soft voice from a nearby bed.

"Coming," she replied. "…In a moment if you are not dying or in severe pain."

Then, gently, she tucked Tom and his toy in, pausing for a moment to brush his hair away from his face. Once she was certain he was sleeping peacefully, she left to tend to her other patient.

Not long after, having brought the girl – Clara Beckett – a glass of water and a cough drop, she returned to her desk, knowing that she would need to remain there (awake) for both of them, as the noise of the parties in the area were bound to wake them.

Martha, however, did not get any of her paperwork done. She could not help but ponder the impossible thing she had seen. If she had been drinking that night, she would have suspected her eyes of playing tricks upon her. But she had not, nor was she tired enough for them to do so.

She was the daughter of a respected and wealthy physician and had been raised to see a very clear difference between the possible and the impossible. If it broke the laws of physics; it was impossible _…and the toy most certainly had broken the laws of physics...which was impossible…yet it had happened…but it couldn't have happened, because it was impossible…and…_

It had made a noise when it fell. It had floated several feet and then it had hit the floor with a tiny 'plop'. That wasn't the sort of sound anything else in that corridor would have made. If she had been mistaken in her observations she would not also have noticed a noise occurring at the exact moment it had returned to the floor.

Martha sighed. Some people might have been content to call it a miracle, or some such nonsense. But Martha didn't believe in miracles. What she did believe in, was there being a perfectly logical explanation for everything.

If it had been Mary who'd seen that the toy was certainly not kicked, she might have said an angel stopped to give Tom his toy back. But Dr. Cecil Elder had not raised his only daughter to believe in such rubbish. To have such a blatant distain for religion was highly unusual, but Martha believed only in science.

Scientifically, however, it was quite impossible for a toy to float on its own accord.

Martha began to twirl a pencil between her fingers. She would have to see such things happen multiple times before she could accept that certain laws of physics might need re-writing.

Not long thereafter, midnight struck, and the general noise level seemed to double in an instant. Needless to say, both her patients woke – although Tom only barely.

"D-dr. Elder?" Clara mumbled.

"Yes?"

"Could you, um, read to me?" the little girl asked.

Martha, who had lifted Tom from his cot and was trying to rock him back to sleep, raised an eyebrow.

"Just until I fall asleep?" she added, tentatively. "My Mum always used to."

If possible, Martha's eyebrow rose higher. "I am not your mother."

Clara flinched slightly at the emotionless response. "I-I know that."

Martha nodded slightly. "Then you are also aware that I have duties to other children as well," she said, raising her arms slightly, to indicate the toddler she was attempting to soothe.

Tom turned slightly and did his best to bury his face in her arm. "Tha," he mumbled, sleepily.

Clara nodded sadly.

"Therefore you will understand that I can not afford to leave to find you suitable reading material," the doctor continued.

Clara nodded again.

"Thus you will have to settle for listening to the reading I do in my spare time," she concluded, allowing the slightest hint of a smile to cross her face.

Clara looked up in surprise.

"Reading you to sleep is safer than giving you another type of medicine on top of what I have already given you for your cold," Martha explained.

After picking up a book from her desk, Martha sat down on the bed next to Clara's, with Tom falling asleep in her lap, and began to read.

"A sagacious prince then cannot and should not fulfil his pledges when their observance is contrary to his interest, and when the causes that induced him to pledge his faith no longer exist. If men were all good, then indeed this precept would be bad; but as men are naturally bad, and will not observe their faith towards you, you must, in the same way, not observe yours to them; and no prince ever yet lacked legitimate reasons with which to colour his want of good faith…"

Many pages later, both of the children were fast asleep and Martha carefully returned Tom to his cot.

She still had not been able to find a logical explanation for what had happened, however she was certain that a sensible solution would present itself eventually. For now, however, she would simply have to wait and watch.

If she had not known better, she would have said it was almost like magic.

…But that, of course, was quite impossible.

* * *

A/N: I do not require reviews, nor shall I beg for them. However, I shall certainly not object to them.


	9. With This Ring: April 5th, 1928

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola may appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

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Chapter Nine: With This Ring

Tom opened his eyes and blearily looked at the big person holding him. Mary and Lucy were still trying to switch him to a normal sleeping pattern – sleeping through the night, which all infants learn eventually – but Tom, clearly, was not impressed. For a boy of only one year and three months, he was an extremely stubborn child.

…Or, perhaps, just an odd one. Although, odd might have been the wrong word: the problem was that he practically seemed to gain energy throughout the day and, when it was time for him to go to bed, he simply wasn't sleepy. When it was time for him to wake up, he hadn't slept as much as he needed to, because he'd been awake when he shouldn't have been. Every time someone talked to him, or played with him, he responded with delight and more energy. Lucy had worked with children for years and she knew very well that many children were like that – children who thrived on attention, children who would fall asleep quicker if left alone in their cot for a time, than if they were held and talked to sleep. But even then, they were liable to stay awake longer after having been awake than to be awake and energetic in the morning. Tom, Lucy had decided, was just a very strong example of this.

They would wake him at the same times as the others, but they'd have to watch in case he fell asleep again. He also couldn't be trusted to sleep at the same time as the others. …He couldn't be trusted while the others were sleeping, either. When the others were tired and set down for their nap, Tommy was still wide awake. Sometimes, they simply had to put him in his cot and hope he slept from boredom before the others woke. After a strict warning to be quiet from Mary, though, since he had developed a habit of babbling loudly and calling for them when looking for attention – Mary was absolutely certain he did not understand that the loud noises he made would wake the others, but Lucy wasn't so sure. He always seemed to do it if they were both out of the room for a moment. On the days that the others woke before Tom fell asleep, however, it was impossible to get the boy to have a nap. Those days always ended the same way: after a few hours Tom would become cranky and irritable. Even Mary – the disciplinarian of the two – had trouble settling him on those days. Mary was certain it was because he had not had enough sleep. Lucy thought that, perhaps, it was because they kept urging him to sleep and would return him to his cot in an effort to make him do so. His behaviour seemed to suggest that he was bored.

He even became, if the word can truly be applied to such a young child, rude. He inevitably seemed to end up on the floor between Mary or Lucy and where they needed to be, but every soothing suggestion and attempt to hold him made resulted in a screech of "NO!" and more, frustrated, crying. It also usually involved him batting away any hands that came toward him and him sniffling into one of his caretakers' blouses until he fell asleep, while the other under-fives watched in amazed silence – even Samuel didn't cause scenes like Tom's.

Tom Marvolo Riddle didn't cry very often. He was, most of the time, an unusually cheerful toddler. He accepted his strained peas as happily as the sweeter fruits and was no more bothered by a nappy change (though they'd started potty training him three months ago) than by a bath.

When he did cry, however, the news never got around the orphanage – it didn't need to: everyone heard it. Lucy had suggested that they simply stop trying to get him to take a nap, but Mary had insisted he had to have one – it wasn't healthy, she always said, for him to go without one: he needed the sleep, the temper tantrums proved it. Lucy couldn't help wondering if it might have been the trying to make him sleep that was causing the tantrums in the first place, but never dared suggest it because of how irritable Mary inevitably became after such an episode.

Tom blinked several times at Lucy who set him down in his cot again – sitting upright. Very quickly, however, he began to tilt to the side, his eyes beginning to close and–

Unfortunately, time waits for no tot.  
"Tommy, oh Tommy." He was being held again, by someone very determined to keep him awake. "No, no, young man, it's time to get up. Come on, now," Lucy cooed sternly – which, in itself, was a rather amazing feat of contradictory vocalizing.

In spite of how tired he seemed, the more Lucy talked to him, the more alert and interested he became – until he was giggling in a highchair and calling for "Foo!" as Lucy filled the spoon with strained peas. Then, when Lucy turned for a moment to answer Mary's inquiry, he batted at her hand with one of his own – clearly trying to bring the loaded spoon closer to him.

"I can't say for certain," Lucy said between her giggles as she allowed Tom's little hand to 'direct' her own, and the peas, to his mouth. "I suppose we shall have to wait until breakfast is over to know if they will need one." Then she turned back to the little boy, scooping another spoonful of peas for him. "What do you think, Tommy? Will you need a bath like Dennis today?"

Tom waved his hands and cried out happily: "Tommy too! Tommy too!"

This was one of Tom's more recent additions to his vocabulary. As best as the orphanage staff could figure, it was his way of saying he wanted something, since he often said it without any prompting and seemingly in relation to nothing at all.

Mary's response was sterner than Lucy's reactions to the boy had been. "You had better be a good boy today, Tom Riddle. I'll have none of your tantrums at the wedding. No tantrums: they're bad. Bad, bad." This was said with a stern shake of the finger in the boy's face.

"No no, bad bad," Tom replied cheerfully, smiling at her and not looking in the least bit abashed.

Lucy knew that children of that age were not yet able to determine between themselves and the rest of the world (resulting in them talking about themselves without realising it, as Tommy just had). But sometimes she had to wonder if what Martha said was right: that they knew exactly what they were saying and were just mocking the adults around them. Judging by Tom's bright smile and eyes twinkling with what (were he older) she might've called mischief, she wouldn't be surprised. …Several hours later, she would be.

* * *

It was nearing noon when Eleanor finished fixing her hair. She had been, in spite of her friend's protests, hurrying about the orphanage and checking that everything was happening as it was supposed to. At nine Samantha had ushered her over to the church, with the help of Martha and an amused cabby, so that she would neither run into Henry nor ruin her beautiful dress. Perhaps it was just that she was extremely happy that day, but she didn't believe beautiful was a good enough word to describe it. Like all her clothes, it was second hand, but today it did not bother her. It was a gift and it was beautiful …and far more expensive than she would ever have been able to afford, even second hand.

Eleanor glanced at Samantha with a smile: they both were quite sure no one would connect the dress with Martha – Martha never wore dresses, only skirts – though the dress had never really been hers. It had been her mother's.

Both Samantha Cole and Eleanor White had been stunned when Martha had shown them a photograph with the dress in it, asking if Eleanor would like to have it. She had, after overhearing Eleanor arguing with the Matron over the older woman's offer to pay for a new wedding dress, already procured it when she inquired.

Eleanor sighed and stood, she knew she was probably focusing too much on the dress – there was much more to be thankful for and delighted by – but she couldn't help it. She had been from a poor family, and orphaned quite young, she had never thought she would wear something so fine.

Silk; she could recognise, like the lace, the other materials she was not so sure of.

_Silver tissue – that was what Martha had called the material on the back of the veil – and…there had been something else silver. Brocade? Yes, silver brocade, that was what the doctor had said, in the bodice. _

Martha had named two others: cambric and damask, but Eleanor was not sure she even knew what those were, let alone which parts they were. One thing was clear: Klazina Jansen (or, as she had become, Mrs. Cecil Elder) had been a very rich woman.

"Do you always obsess over the details, Eleanor?" Martha asked, leaning against the door. She smirked slightly when Eleanor's head snapped up and the younger woman focused on her. "You've been smoothing out none-existent wrinkles in the skirts for the last five minutes."

Eleanor sighed. "I'm nervous, not obsessing."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Henry will not leave you; you should know that by now. Your voice is far too shrill for him to ever dare try it."

Samantha let out an odd sort of spluttering snort, in surprise and amusement. "Martha, really!" she cried.

There was a soft knock at the door, the only warning before the cabby stuck his head it. Although Eleanor had initially been against it – she wanted to have one perfect day for herself (a perfectly reasonable desire on one's wedding day) and she was against anything that could cause the slightest upset to that perfection – nevertheless, she had conceded to Samantha's offer, to let the man stay, when she had realised that he would cause no trouble, was reasonably clean and well mannered, and quite terrified to go home to his wife and tell her that he'd accidentally ripped the trapdoor off the roof of his hansom cab with a low-hanging branch. He had then been smacked in the face with the branch, but was unharmed. Since cheap automobiles had begun to replace horse-drawn cabs, which were becoming a rarity, he was rather embarrassed.

"S'cuse me," he said, "But I thought I oughta letcha know the other's are 'ere. Your priest fellow just ushered the groom into anotha side-room to freshen up."

Samantha smiled. "Thank you, Thomas," she said.

The cabby shrugged slightly. "'s no problem, Ma'am." Then, shyly, he ducked back out of the room.

All too soon, it seemed, the bride's maids (some of the older orphans, who had been Eleanor's closest friends until she had become a part of the staff) entered with the news that everyone else was ready for the ceremony to begin. Eleanor herself was still running through her mental checklist, just in case there was anything she might have forgotten. Her hands clutched her bouquet tightly as she walked to the entrance hall with her friends and colleagues, causing the Baby's Breath, Calla Lilies (she still didn't know how Samantha had acquired those), Carnations, Peonies, white Roses and, oddly, Bluebells ("You need something blue!" Agatha Marshall had insisted) to shake in her hands – several of the petals had even fallen off. Eleanor blinked at the fallen petals. It was by force of will alone that she stopped her hands from shaking.

Martha and Samantha – with a nod and a smile respectively – slipped through the doors to join the others in the sanctuary (Martha standing by the back wall with the cabby; Samantha passing Mary, Lucy and the youngest orphans on the wall-side of the left-hand front pew – which was closer to the side door and the quickest, least obtrusive way out if the little ones got restless – to give her son a quick hug before sinking into the aisle-side of the front right-hand pew with her husband). Jonathan, taking the hint, slipped out of the room, nodding to Reverend Honeycutt – who bade the organist start approximately two minutes after the schoolmaster left.

Lucy and Mary tried very hard to keep the little ones from becoming restless and disruptive as the ceremony took place (they had been too busy watching curiously as Jonathan led Eleanor down the aisle and the occasionally – yet unintentionally – funny faces pulled by Archibald Thomson, the best man, who had never been good at waiting), but when Mary had to slip out to take care of little Dennis – who was hungry and needed his nappy changed – it became more difficult. When Lucy took a moment to glance back at the happy couple (noting that even Eleanor's dull brownish-blonde hair looked exquisite amid the white veil which covered most of her head) it became impossible. A soft noise suddenly alerted the orphanage worker, who turned slightly to find Samuel (he always became cross if he missed his nap) pulling Gertrude's hair – but Lizzie and Arnold were between her and the errant boy. Tom, on the far end (next to Mary's empty seat) was unnoticed as Lucy attempted to silently, and unobtrusively, end the toddler's shenanigans. He was actually, up until that point, the best behaved of all of them – furthering Lucy's belief that he was actually better off if they did not try to make him take a nap. For a child who had been sitting still so long, he was quite cheerful.

Tom, quite fascinated by the rings being exchanged by the couple, slipped out of the pew and toddled up to the alter. He tugged gently on the pretty white dress in front of him. "Tommy too!" he said, pointing at the rings.

Lucy's head whipped around immediately. "Tom!" she hissed. "Come back here!" But it was too late.

Tom smiled at the pretty lady in white and raised his arms expectantly. When she didn't move, he clarified: "Up!"

Eleanor looked as if she might just start crying. Her perfect day – and it had been so close, too – seemed to fade before her eyes.

"Go on," a quiet voice told her, so soft that only she could hear it. Eleanor glanced up at the Reverend, who smiled kindly and gave a tiny nod toward the boy. Abruptly, she bent and picked Tom up.

Not for the first time, Eleanor silently cursed that they had no one to watch the orphans and had been forced to take them all to her wedding. But she slipped her engagement ring off her right hand (she'd swapped the hand it was on before the wedding, to avoid fumbling at the alter) and slipped it onto one of Tom's small finger.

Henry gave her a bemused look. Archibald, on the other hand, chuckled. "It would seem you've got a ring-bearer after all," he said.

Lucy sighed quietly and sank back into her seat; everything, it seemed, would be alright now – the minor disaster was resolved and all she had to worry about was a tongue lashing from Mary afterward – and so the ceremony continued.

Reverend Honeycutt beamed down at the, now not-so, happy couple. "I now pronounce you husband and wife," he said, after the vows.

Tommy made a little unhappy noise as the shiny ring slipped off his finger and onto the floor, then tugged on Eleanor's dress for attention.

"You may kiss the bride," Honeycutt finished, as Eleanor bent down to pick up the fallen engagement ring.

Henry Cole looked as where his wife should have been, shrugged, turned around and planted a kiss on Archibald's cheek.

Almost every one of the orphans in the pews was giggling.

"What?" Henry asked. "Did you mean her?" This last was dramatised with an arm waved slightly in the direction of the now-upright Eleanor, who glared at him. "Sorry," he added in a small voice, shrinking back slightly.

This simply prompted more hilarity from the spectators.

Agatha quickly accepted the errant toddler from Eleanor's arms, so that she could actually kiss her husband.

Hubert Honeycutt smiled as the couple before him separated and turned to the pews, smiling. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Cole!"

Eleanor was now smiling brightly, not at all an unattractive look on her sharply featured face. Martha, however, frowned slightly, her shrewd eyes narrowed.

The cabby glanced at her. "Wha' wrong with 'er smilin', then?"

Martha shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Vicious circle," she murmured.

The cabby turned fully toward her, frowning, as the bride and groom walked arm in arm down the aisle. "Wha's this then? You thinkin' she'll be holdin' a grudge agains' the lit'le one 'cause he spoil'ed 'er day?"

Martha raised an eyebrow momentarily. "Perceptive," she murmured – then, slightly louder, "White Chapel, isn't it?"

The cabby blinked. "Yes Ma'am; born an' bred. But you didn' answer my question."

For a moment, Martha closed her eyes. "She's done this before. Many people do it. They just don't realise they are. He embarrasses her, she holds a grudge, but she doesn't realise she's doing it – because it was such a minor event and she gets on with her life – but then he does something else that upsets her…even if it's perfectly normal…and she doesn't even know why she's so angry with him – she just is – and then she forgets why she was angry with him that time; and all that's left it an unnoticed, meaningless grudge, which just makes her quicker to blame him for her problems, quicker to become irritated with him. …and eventually, when he's older, he won't understand why she hates him any more than she does; so he'll fight back – and he'll give her reasons to hate him, which she'll take as proof he deserves it, then she'll be irritated with him, regardless of whether or not he deserves it; so every time he doesn't, he'll fight back…and make her hate him even more. He embarrassed her, and even when she's forgotten why, she'll be irritable with him – and that will just make the incidents bigger, which will make her more embarrassed and irritable… and will make it worse the next time."

The cabby nodded, sadly. "An' you can' tell 'em, neither, 'cause they won' listen even if you do."

Martha glanced at him, looking away from the procession out of the church for a moment. "No," she replied, "no, they won't."

…and outside, as Eleanor tossed the bouquet over her shoulder – smiling so brightly one might have compared it to the sun – and as Lucy nimbly caught it, amid praises and teasing: Jonathan clenched his fists; glaring at the dark haired woman who flirted so merrily with Sir John Blackwood.

"…There is nothing I can do to make them listen," she murmured.

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A/N: I neither require reviews, nor shall I beg for them. However, I certainly do appreciate them.


	10. Hiss: July 13th, 1928

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognizable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

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Chapter Ten: Hiss

Mary sneezed. She was not the sort to hate much, nor the sort to hate easily; but she could not deny that she hated some of the yearly summer outings the orphanage went on.

Simon smiled at her. "Hay fever?"

Mary, however, didn't have a chance to reply; she sneezed again, suddenly very pleased that Tom had insisted on carrying his own toy for the rest of the trip. She would not have liked to have sneezed on it.

"Mary! Mary!" Tom cried from next to her.

Mary looked down at the boy, who was pointing forward with his little right hand (the left was occupied with holding his toy monkey to his chest).

"House!"

Mary sighed, "No Tommy, that isn't a house. Those are stones. That's what we have – ah, ah" she sneezed. "What we have come to see."

Simon passed her a handkerchief and smiled, before dashing off to get a number of the more rowdy boys under control again.

Tom stared at the stones, his eyes wide. "…House," he said finally, still in awe of the massive structure.

Mary sneezed.

"Nose," Tom helpfully added.

Beyond them, Stonehenge loomed. Or, would have loomed: if the other, older, orphans had not already arrived and been playing around the structure – far too close for Mary's taste – completely ruining the effect.

"Chester Bullock! Don't you even think about it young man! Those are a national treasure! You should not even be near them!"

The boy in question backed away from the stones, not daring to stay too close lest Eleanor assume he would try to climb them again. Evidently, Eleanor was of a similar mind to Mary when it came to letting the children run loose.

With one last, almost inaudible, sigh Mary lifted Tom onto her hip (ignoring his squirming and insistent repetition of "Tommy walk!"), as he was going too slowly, and strode over to the small cluster of adults – who were at a respectable distance from the standing stones.

When she reached the others she allowed Tom to stand on his own again. He immediately began trying to tug his hand out of hers.

"No, Tommy," Mary said sternly. "I shall not let you run off on your own. You are still far too little. Besides, I already nearly lost you at Vauxhall Station. You mustn't wander off like that!"

"…Tommy walk?" the little boy asked, seemingly very disappointed.

"Mary, what do you think?" Samantha inquired suddenly.

"About what?"

Helen Hackett sniffed in displeasure, brushing some of her perfectly styled blonde hair 'back' into place (not that it had actually moved) as she did. "I really do not see why this should not be an educational experience. I am not one of your staff – I am just the teacher hired to work here – so if you are going to insist I accompany you on these little…outings…I shall have to insist I, at least, be allowed to teach my pupils."

Mary sneezed.

Lucy frowned. "The children should be allowed to play – it is their only chance to get out of the city each year."

Tommy stared at the adults, baffled. "House," he said again, pointing behind them with his recently freed hand.

Mary was just glad he hadn't run off when she had let go.

"No, young man," Helen replied, tersely. "That is not a house; that is a historical monument – it is called Stonehenge."

Tommy blinked at her. "House," he repeated – most likely, not in so many words and concepts, wondering why the pretty blonde lady was being so stupid. It was a house. It didn't look exactly like the ones near their big house, but it was obviously a house.

"He is too young to understand, Helen," Jonathan said, somewhat sternly.

"Which is why the older children – who you are allowing to run wild – should be encouraged to learn!" she snapped.

Mary could feel her eyes watering slightly. "Could they not have learned somewhere else? This is quite a bit further out than the Dover seaside or our usual locations for trips." She couldn't help glancing at Martha, even though she knew that the stern doctor had been one of the main advocates for the trip.

"Do not look to me for assistance in this matter, Mary. I believe that the children should be encouraged to learn."

"Still," Mary replied, "we could have taken them to a zoo if the aim was too teach."

"The orphanage," Martha muttered as she turned to scan their environs, "_is_ a zoo."

The blonde teacher followed her gaze. "You ought to call them in, _Samantha_," she said sweetly, "before they become unmanageable."

"By all means, Helen," the Matron replied, coolly, "if you wish to give a lecture, call them."

The teacher smiled sweetly once again; then turned to face the area where the majority of the children were playing. She clapped her hands twice, her bracelets shaking. "Children," she called.

She was, unanimously, ignored. Her broad smile, although it did not leave her face, became rather fixed.

"Children," she called again, only somewhat louder.

They could probably hear her. They just didn't want to listen. By then her smile had a distinctly forced appearance to it. Although that might have had more to do with the smiles that the orphanage staff were trying to keep off their faces – Simon, in particular, was having great difficulty.

"Children," Helen Hackett called, "if I could have your attention, please."

The answer was an evident and definite 'no' as the laughing, running, giggling and even spinning children continued to do just that.

In Samantha's arms, Dennis Bishop began to squirm – he hadn't learned to walk yet, he hadn't even managed to stand yet, but (even without the words to express it) what the older children were doing looked like _fun_.

Eleanor walked up beside the somewhat frustrated teacher. "Allow me, Miss Hackett," she said. Then, without pausing to wait for a reply she turned in the general direction of the majority of the children. "ORPHANS OF VAUXHALL! HEADCOUNT!"

Every one of them took notice and quickly began to make their way toward the staff. Helen, however, pursed her lips and her face seemed to pull back – with her nose held high, she looked, for all the world, like she had a significant pile of dung under her nose. Eleanor felt slightly deflated inside upon seeing that look directed at her.

Finally, the teacher spoke – trying hard for the illusion of pleasance. "It's rude to shout, _Mrs. _Cole."

"It is ruder not to thank someone who has assisted you."

Helen Hackett spun around to look at Martha – who seemed distinctly unimpressed with the entirety of the goings on.

Helen's ears had turned red. "It is not your place, _Miss_ Elder, to teach _me_ good manners," she said coldly.

Martha did not blink, nor raise an eyebrow, nor – really – make any facial expression at all. But she replied immediately, all things together showing how unimpressive the teacher's behaviour was, "Nor is it yours to teach the staff."

Helen opened her mouth to reply, but Martha cut her off.

"Further, as you have shown yourself to be both incapable of showing restraint by attempting to interrupt someone who is speaking – it is very rude to do so – and incapable of telling a Doctor from a common uneducated civilian, perhaps you would benefit from returning to school: since it appears that your previous studies have not taught you very much."

The blonde teacher opened and closed her mouth several times, unable to form a reply.

"However," Martha continued, her voice still flat and her face still expressionless, "as we have just re-established: I am a doctor and you are a teacher. Moreover, since your pupils are now sitting and waiting patiently for the lecture to begin," here she nodded to where Jonathan, Lucy and Simon were organizing the last few orphans into neat rows at a respectable distance from the stones, "I suggest you _teach_."

Helen flushed (her ears now blended in quite well with the rest of her face), then spun around on her heel and walked over to the children her nose in the air.

Martha simply looked at her colleagues out of the corner of her eye, raised her right eyebrow a fraction and followed the irate teacher toward the congregation of orphans.

The two Mrs. Coles shared a glance. Of all the people living in, and connected to, the orphanage, they were the ones who seemed to know Martha best. The doctor always was willing to lash out at people with vitriolic comments, but she never actively went in search of someone to antagonize. But then, the doctor had also fought very hard to gain respect and employment in her chosen field – and had still wound up working in a moderately well-off orphanage as a live-in doctor, in spite of being more than capable of running a practise or working in a hospital. Helen had hit a sore spot. Eleanor smiled grimly at her mother-in-law – Martha might not have been the most well liked person in the orphanage, but Helen definitely deserved what the doctor would give her in return.

Mary, once again carrying Tom, followed her co-workers over to the neat rows of orphans; who were sitting in front of Helen (who had the ancient structure behind her) and already looking bored.

Martha, however, walked directly past her – passing the boys, the girls and the space (about two persons wide) that Jonathan had insisted on having to keep the genders separate: he evidently felt that the older orphans would have nothing better to do during Helen's lecture than to behave inappropriately with the opposite gender if they were allowed to sit near each other. Mary honestly couldn't say she found fault with that logic.

Martha had stopped and spoken to Lucy in a low tone, then walked back to Mary and Samantha – who had reached Helen.

"Is something the matter, dear?" Samantha asked.

The doctor inclined her head slightly. "It would be foolishness to assume that the little ones can sit through this."

Mary nodded. "Samuel and Arnold are old enough to sit for a short time; and with Elizabeth and Gertrude adopted several weeks ago, we can split the little ones equally between two. If Lucy will look after Samuel and Arnold–"

"She will."

Mary nodded and continued, "And take them when they get bored, I shall take Dennis and Tom for a walk."

Helen smiled and opened her mouth.

"I shall accompany you, Mary," the doctor said. "As there is indubitably nothing Miss Hackett can say about Stonehenge that I do not already know."

"Now see here!" Helen cried in outrage – accidentally insuring that every child who had not listened to the previous slight against her was now paying attention. "I am a teacher, you are not and–" she faltered when Martha folded her arms calmly, an unmistakable look of amusement on her face.

"I am glad," said the doctor, "that you have finally caught up with the rest of us, in that regard, Miss Hackett, as I believe we have already covered that fact twice in the last five minutes."

There were sniggers from the older children, despite the quelling looks sent them by the staff.

"Further, you are not technically qualified to say that much about this structure, as you are merely a primary school level general educator. In fact, not only do you have no further explicit expertise in history, you also stated – very clearly and on many occasions between when this particular trip was suggested until you decided you ought to be allowed to give the children a lecture on the subject – that there was (and I quote) 'absolutely no use whatsoever in teaching the children about a useless old bunch of rocks'. As you clearly did not plan to teach a lesson on the subject until we had already arrived, you could not have had much time to gather information. Therefore, your information on the subject is no doubt somewhat…_limited_."

Helen's lip curled in disgust. "And you presume to know more, being only a doctor?"

The side of Martha's mouth hitched up slightly, amusement evident. "Over the latter part of this decade there has been a nation-wide appeal to save Stonehenge, as you must know… although, by the look on your face it is clear that you did not…how terrible for you."

"What's your point, Dr. Elder?"

Mary frowned as she took Dennis from Samantha: Miss Hackett had been out of line, but this was going a bit too far.

"Unlike you, Miss Hackett, I have been involved in the movement to preserve this national treasure since it began. There is nothing you can possibly have to say that I do not already know." The doctor then turned to the Matron. "I shall take my medical bag with me."

* * *

Some ten minutes later found Mary and Martha walking in a vaguely uncomfortable silence, which was broken only by Tom's little voice – he was a few steps ahead of them – as he attempted to name everything they passed. Mary's eyes flickered regularly away from her charge and her path to look at her companion. Martha's eyes, on the other hand, did not stray from her path as she strode, with her head held high – looking only straight ahead, she silently and patiently waited for Mary to work out what it was she wanted to say.

Finally, Mary spoke. "I had not expected Eleanor to be so… forward," she murmured.

The slight, momentary, lift of one of the doctor's eyebrow was the only sign she gave that she knew this was not what was bothering her colleague. "She is no longer a child – she begins to realize that she has authority; and is meant to exercise it."

Tommy toddled back over to them and held out a hand. "Stone!" he said proudly, displaying the item for them to see.

Mary smiled. "Yes, Tom, that is a stone. Very good."

Tom beamed up at her, dropped the little stone (it was barely more than a pebble) and hurried ahead again.

Mary called after him, "Don't go too far!" Then she sighed, "At least there is no one out here for him to tell his life's story to."

Judging by the twitch of her lips and the sidelong glance, Martha wanted an explanation.

"Several times at the station, I discovered he'd wandered off – or turned to a nearby stranger – and was talking to them."

Martha nodded slightly – Mary could almost hear the silent 'ah' – then spoke. "At one and a half the vocabulary should not be sufficient for that, being only nouns."

"It generally consisted of introducing himself, and his toy, then pointing out everything and one he recognised and naming them. Very foolish thing to do, I mean; what if they'd been deviants? To think what might have happened…"

"Ah."

* * *

Not too far ahead of them, Tom was distracted by a voice.

"Would you, at least, try to stop projecting, you stupid boy?" it hissed.

Tommy looked around in confusion, then down at his monkey and around again. Tha and Mary were in the distance (really not that far away, but to Tom it seemed like a great distance), but it didn't sound like either of them.

"I am down here, you buffoon," it – she rather, for it was definitely feminine – said.

Tommy looked down. A gray snake was sitting up – most of its body was coiled on the ground, with only the top end, and its head, raised – and hissing at him. Tom, however, had never seen a snake before. He stared at it. After a few moments of deep – but childish – thought, he came to the conclusion that it hissed, while it was talking to him, therefore; it was hissy. Or, at the very least, that is the best approximation of one and a half year old logic and thought that can be given, as it was actually nothing like that.

"…Hissy?" he asked, finally.

"A language we both understand, if you don't mind," hissed the irritated serpent.

Tommy blinked in confusion. Hissy made hissy noises at the same time as talking like a big person. But they were talking. Toddler logic is a wonderful thing. Tom never thought to be afraid of the glossy-scaled serpent – to him, since she was talking to him, she was just someone new to talk to.

"Hello!" he said, smiling brightly.

"…idiot," the snake said.

"Mummy?" said a new little voice. "Mummy! Hungry!" This new voice, also female, seemed to come from inside the snake.

Tommy blinked. "…Hello?" he repeated.

The snake shook her head. "Your speech is worse than an unborn's is." Then it added, more to itself, "I don't understand why humans always let their offspring off on their own before they can talk properly. How are they supposed to hunt? Idiots." And, with that, the 26-inch serpent began to slither away, muttering to herself (or possibly her young) about stupid humans who make the floor shake when they run and their stupid offspring.

Tom's face fell; Hissy didn't like him. "…bye," he mumbled.

"Tom! TOM!" Mary cried, hurrying toward him as fast as she could while holding Dennis.

Martha, however, could and did move faster. Brushing right passed the confused toddler; Martha lunged and grabbed the surprised serpent by the back of the head – preventing it from being able to bite. She stood cautiously, holding the snake at arm's length.

"WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, YOU...YOU _HUMAN_!" the snake hissed (although Tom heard it as more of a shriek) her reddish-brown tongue flicking out at the end.

Martha was silent as she looked over the animal, her free hand gently feeling its middle. A whole chorus of tiny hisses responded, along with the increase of thrashing and hissing by the snake in Martha's hands, but to Tom's ears alone did it come across as a "Mummy, Mummy!" as cried by many scared children and a more mature voice snarling "Don't squeeze there!" Tom had never heard of a 'mummy' before, but he (for lack of a better term) concluded that it must be Hissy's name.

Mary looked between Martha and Tom in horror. She removed on of her arms from little Dennis (who watched the goings on in fascination) and pulled Tom close.

"Mummy?" he asked, worried.

"Tommy!" Mary whispered. "Don't hiss at it! You'll make it angry!"

The snake, on the other hand, had stopped thrashing to stare at him. "You really are stupid, aren't you?" she hissed back at him.

Mary looked at Martha, alarmed by the snake's sudden cease in its struggle to escape. "You shouldn't have grabbed it, Martha," she said. "That was stupid. Now what are you going to do?"

"I had to know if it was venomous."

"What's she saying, boy?" the snake asked, agitated.

Tommy shook his head: he didn't know the big words Tha used.

"And if it is?" Mary all but shrieked.

Martha blinked. "I did not think that far."

Mary shook her head. "You are not a snake expert, you know. You shouldn't have even tried it!"

"Tell them to put me down!" the snake hissed, upset. "Tell the one that smells like poisons to stop poking me! She'll hurt my offspring!"

"There are only three species of snake in Britain, Mary," the doctor replied. "Being able to tell them apart on sight allows me to treat snake bites with greater accuracy."

"Put me down, human!" the snake hissed at her. Then she seemed to sigh. "Humans! The little one projects too much, and understands but speaks like an unborn child or an unhatched egg, these big ones project nothing and understand less, and the big ones in the house with the white birds project some but understand nothing."

"House?" Tommy asked.

"Martha, do you know what it is?" Mary asked, concern growing by the minute.

"That way," the snake said, flicking the end of her tail in the opposite direction from the standing stones. "Now what is she saying?"

"Orange eyes, smooth; ridge-less and glossy gray scales, two rows of dark spots along the back, heart-shaped head and a reddish-brown tongue," Martha said.

Tom thought for a moment. "…Colours!" he told the snake.

"This is a Coronella Austriaca. A Smooth Snake," Martha concluded.

The snake seemed to consider Tom's explanation. "Stupid human: I don't need that sort of vision."

Tom blinked.

Martha walked a few feet away and quickly (but gently) placed the snake on the ground before stepping back hurriedly.

"Martha!" Mary cried.

Martha turned to her, calmly, as she attempted to dust off her skirt and blouse. "The only venomous snake in Britain is the Adder." Then she walked over to Tom and dropped to her knees in front of him. "Are you hurt?"

Tom shook his head. She opened her arms, somewhat stiffly, to him and he put his little arms around her neck; allowing himself to be picked up.

They returned to Stonehenge – and the others from the orphanage – in silence: Mary furious with herself for letting the boy wander off and, although she knew it was unreasonable, with Tom for continuing to mimic the sounds of a dangerous animal; Martha contemplating the strange behaviour of the snake …and the boy. Dennis just gnawed on Tom's toy monkey, content.

* * *

A/N: As always, reviews are welcome but I shall not demand them.


	11. Mummy? December 24th, 1928

Warnings: Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

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* * *

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Chapter Eleven: Mummy?

Mary woke on the morning of December 24th to find that, somehow, Tom had gotten into Lucy's personal art supplies – along with Samuel and Arnold. Encouraged by the older boys' example, Tom had taken to 'decorating' the nursery walls with Lucy's paints. Worse still, only Arnold had realised what the brushes were for; both Samuel and Tom were using their fingers, elbows and (in Tom's case) feet. They also hadn't worked out what the canvases were for. The walls, floor, bed-frames, three boys and everything else within their reach had been 'decorated'. Thankfully that hadn't included Dennis, who had been watching from his cot and was therefore out of reach.

Tom looked up at the woman in the doorway and beamed at her, half his face covered in green splotches. He seemed to be extremely proud of himself. "Mary! Lookie! Arnie's a squirrel!" he told her brightly. It sounded distinctly like someone had been coaching him to do it.

Mary looked toward the boy in question. He did, indeed, look like a 'squirrel' – someone, presumably Samuel, had carefully attempted to paint whiskers on his face and give him an appropriate 'nose'. Arnold scrunched up his nose, showed his teeth and chattered. At the glare Mary gave him, however, he stopped.

Mary then looked around for Samuel. Unlike moments before, the four and a half year old was nowhere to be seen. Unfortunately for him, he'd stood on the wet paint of one of his 'creations' while attempting to hide from the orphanage worker in the doorway and the little trail of orange footprints led her directly to his hiding spot; under the nearest bed.

Furious, Mary glowered at the offending hiding place from the doorway; as if it was the bed's fault. "Samuel Chase; you come out of there this very instant!"

Two sets of small, purple fingers appeared on the bottom of the bedspread, lifted it for a moment and – after a second long peek at the outside world (during which Mary saw that he was covered almost from head to toe with paint of all colours) – promptly disappeared again; letting the bedspread fall. The sound of a distinctly muffled giggle floated out from beneath the bed.

Mary opened her mouth. She then closed it again and shut her eyes for a few moments (counting to ten had never been so difficult before), then spun around and shouted into the corridor. "LUUUCYY!"

Tom looked at Arnold, who shrugged, and returned to painting the wall. The red did make the dully gray wall look much better, in his opinion.

Mary looked back into the room, exasperated. When her eyes landed on Tom's 'art' however, she froze. It was very sloppy, not only because he'd been using his fingers (and some of the prints on the wall definitely belonged to little feet). But that wasn't what shocked her. What shocked her was that Tom had clearly been trying to paint _something_.

Mary shook herself, Tom wasn't even two years old; there was no possible way he had intended to paint anything. She knew Tom was not a stupid boy – in fact he had startled her with his intelligence on numerous occasions – but this was simply too much: it wasn't possible for a child of his age.

As Lucy came rushing up the stairs, Mary sighed. "Tommy?" she asked, weakly.

Tom turned to her curiously and smiled – in the short space of time she'd turned away Arnold had added a gray handprint to the decorations on the not-quite-a-two-year-old's face.

Frightened of the answer she might get, yet at the same time telling herself she was being ridiculous, Mary spoke. "What are you painting?

One little hand – mainly red and blue – shot up above his head. "This!" Tom proclaimed proudly, "Tommy doing this!"

Mary's eyes followed the direction Tom was pointing in (and he was clearly pointing) toward the ceiling. Once beyond the reach of little hands, the walls were uniform gray – mainly from age, they hadn't always been so dull – with the exception of a small strip of coloured wallpaper that circled the top of the walls. That, too, had faded with time, but the once brightly coloured letters of the alphabet were still visible just beneath the cornice. Mary opened her mouth. She snapped it shut. She could practically feel her eyes bugging out.

Mary's eyes found Tom's artwork again. Looking around wildly, she realised for the first time that his work wound its way around the room at – roughly – the same height. It had clearly been worked on for the majority of the night…

…_it's currently six o'clock in the morning, the mess and 'art' in the room had to have taken hours to create, they would have had to have started by one in the morning at least…_

It had clearly been planned, too. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph," she mumbled, stumbling backward and slamming directly into Lucy.

Lucy glanced at the room as she untangled herself from her colleague, mortified. "I'm terribly sorry, Mary, I'll clean it up, I just–"

Mary reached out without looking and forced her colleague's head in the direction of Tom's 'art'. "Look."

Colour for faded colour and shape for faded shape, little fingers had copied the alphabet wallpaper onto the walls at toddler-head height.

The smudges and handprints around it bore witness to the struggle put into making the forms recognisable, and they were barely so, but they were _there_. Red A for red A, blue B for blue B, green C for green C; a two-year-old's alphabet encircled the room.

Lucy gaped.

Tom smiled at them, before turning back to the wall to add the 'finishing touches' to the last blue Z. That was when Mary got her first proper look at Tom's fingers. His left index finger was red, the middle finger was blue and his ring finger was green. His right hand was on the wall beneath his 'artwork', presumably to hold him steady, but little finger prints around the room all told the same story – his right index, middle and ring fingers were yellow, black and white respectively. The hand not painting had been pressed against the wall and the same colours appeared under letters right around the room …one finger per colour and there was a distinct lack of false starts to be seen.

Mary sucked in a sharp breath. _He knew what he was doing, he planned ahead._

"Tommy?" Lucy asked. "Did you do this?"

Tom looked at her, cocking his head to one side. "…Tommy do," he said.

Lucy's eyes widened. "B-by yourself?"

Tom seemed to think about this. "I does them," he explained, pointing at the original alphabet. "Arnie does floor, Sammy does Sammy."

Sammy's voice floated out from beneath the bed. "Haven't done Dennis yet!"

"Thank the lord," Mary muttered. Then her eyes widened again. "You haven't put any of that in your mouths, have you?"

"No," Samuel replied, still under the bed. "Arnie says it goes on walls."

Mary froze. _Arnie says, _Arnie _says_. That meant Arnold had been the ringleader …she'd thought that it was Samuel's idea. But it made sense, in an odd sort of way, since she had not heard anything overnight and Arnold – being the eldest – was the only one who could have known, who would have known, that they would be caught if they got too loud. He must have kept them quiet.

A deep chuckle from behind startled her. Simon grinned as he looked into the room. "I hate to say it," he said, not sounding at all like the statement was true, "but I think it looks better this way."

Lucy ducked out of the doorway, unable to contain her giggles.

Mary huffed in exasperation and turned back to the room. Her eyes travelled over the multi-coloured floor (Arnold had taken over one corner, clearly, and had been trying to paint a 'picture', with limited success) – mainly covered in bright footprints, hand prints and what looked like it might have been the result of a paint fight – to the bed-frames, most of which had little hand prints all over them.

Then her eyes travelled back to the walls, noting for the first time that Tom's alphabet had been interrupted by a large green, yellow and black smear and the letters I, J and K had been repeated beneath it (and the smear looked terribly like what Mary had seen of Samuel's back before he made it under the bed – almost as if Tom had been forced to defend and redo his artwork, after an attack by the elder boy).

The parts of the walls not covered in Tom's alphabet were covered in hand, foot, elbow and even face prints – as well as splotches, smears and splatters that looked like the result of paint being flung across the room (surely that was the only explanation for it getting so high up).

The few beds that were of a height accessible to toddlers had been climbed over relentlessly, as proven by the multitude of colourful foot and hand prints on the once-white sheets. Someone had put a purple starburst over the white letter L – which Tom had painstakingly placed above Arnold's bed, to match the one by the ceiling. A pair of stick-figures stood above and below Tom's black W and handprints decorated the walls above and below the majority of the alphabet. It was almost as if Arnold and Samuel had taken care not to ruin Tom's work.

_But_, Mary thought, _that might actually be true: Samuel was probably the one responsible for the I J K smear and he's the only one covered in paint from head to toe. Tom's no messier than I would have expected a two-year-old with access to paint to be and Arnold's downright clean in comparison!_ _…but there's no way Tommy could have pushed Samuel against the wall enough to smudge it…_

That was when she caught sight of the window …the _open_ window.

Mary only just managed to keep her jaw from dropping again. She was very, very aware that even Arnold – who was five – could not have possibly known the window needed to be open when using oil paints (and they had to be oil paints, since that was all Lucy ever used and what she'd allowed Arnold to 'help' her with the day before – which was probably how Arnold had gotten the idea in the first place). More importantly, no one that young should have been able to open the window… and Mary knew she had checked it before she went to bed the night before. But, judging by the amount of snow on the windowsill, it had been open for several hours. Even more shockingly, the room did not feel cold.

Eleanor and Samantha approached the nursery, alerted by the commotion.

Mary looked at the toddlers. "Arnold," she said, choosing the one most likely to give her a sensible answer. "Who opened that window?"

Arnold shrugged. "It did."

Mary blinked: quite certain she must have misunderstood. "_Who_?"

"The window," Arnold replied, clearly wondering why she was repeating the question.

"Yes, Arnold, but who opened it?" Mary asked, struggling to articulate the question in a manner comprehensible to the child – as he had clearly not been able to follow the first time.

Arnold appeared to think about this. "It opens itself. When it smells bad. Whoosh!"

Mary sighed, giving up on getting past the toddler's flights of fancy. Walking cautiously into the room, she lifted Dennis from his cot and passed him to Samantha – who, like Eleanor, was staring at Tom's alphabet in amazement. Then she turned to the three older boys (Samuel had finally come out from under the bed). Bracing herself for the imminent destruction of her favourite red cardigan, Mary knelt down in the doorway and opened her arms. "Come here, Tommy, you need a bath."

* * *

Several hours later, Martha frowned at the four boys in her infirmary.

"Oh, don't be that way, Martha," Mary said. "They can not very well sleep in the nursery tonight, can they?"

"I am aware of that," the doctor replied, tersely. "It would be medically inadvisable."

"Then why are you frowning?"

Martha raised an eyebrow. "You are certain the window could not have been opened by a five year old?"

Mary nodded.

Martha's frown became more pronounced as she watched the four sleeping boys. It was only mid-morning, but after their baths, medical exams and breakfast they had been exhausted (although Dennis hadn't needed a bath and had been the first to be given an exam).

Mary straightened her green cardigan, concerned. "How are they?"

"Tired – but not any more than a long nap can cure," the doctor replied. "I can't find anything wrong with them. The open window would have prevented noticeable damage from the paint fumes, but it is winter – they should have been shivering when we found them, but you said they didn't even have cold toes and fingers when you put them in the bath."

"Did they catch colds?"

"I can't tell yet. They probably will develop them in the next few days," Martha said, then glanced at her companion's cardigan. "Christmas Roses and glass baubles, Mary? How… festive," but the tone she used suggested that 'gaudy' would be a more appropriate term.

Mary sniffed. "It's the least we can do; to brighten things up for the little ones. You could try for something other than your typical whites, you know."

Martha pushed her chair out to stare at her companion. "If it would make you feel better, Miss Bonner, you may feel free to call me a snowflake."

Tom rolled over in his sleep.

Mary paused, both anxious to speak and wary of the potential answer. "Did you see what he did?" she murmured, once again aware that conversing loudly would likely wake her charges…Martha's charges, for at least the one night.

"Unexpected, but not entirely unsurprising," the doctor replied, turning back to her desk. "Children are perfectly capable of behaving and thinking like intelligent adults, however are often too slothful to put in the effort and, being young and cute, are encouraged by their elders to behave like wild animals."

Mary's face became blank, yet somehow also very cold, and her voice – although flat – was riddled with disapproval. "…How very Victorian."

There was silence from the doctor, as even her pen had ceased to move.

Mary took a step forward, her face dark – like her low tone. "Did you approve of the children in the coal mines, too?"

There was a distinct, tense, pause. Mary stared down at the darker haired woman, unwilling to back down without an answer.

Finally, the doctor spoke – every word slow and carefully chosen. "Birth date: January 6th, 1900." Her head turned slightly away from her co-worker, allowing her a better view of her charges and the snow falling outside the window. "I was an infant when that was happening."

"From a rich family," Mary said. It wasn't an accusation, but a cold stated fact.

Dr. Elder did not say anything in response. Mary didn't need her to: the twist of the pencil in her hand, and of the side of her mouth, and the slight turning away of her eyes, told Mary all she needed to know. A tight, pained smile flickered across her face for a moment before falling away, as every muscle in her body seemed to shake with her unspoken fury. She turned to leave, her face distorted by her disgust, then wavered – as if to speak, and then thought better of it – and left. The doctor did not move for some time, even after the harsh footsteps had faded.

* * *

Samantha Cole smiled at the children gathered in the large drawing room; the only room, apart from the dining hall, meant to seat all of the occupants of the orphanage. She could see Mary and Martha speaking quietly near one of the walls; they appeared to be arguing. At the other end of the room, Simon was leading a large number of the orphans in carol singing – not particularly well, but with great enthusiasm – by the dilapidated old piano forte, which had been donated (second hand) to the orphanage some thirty years before. It was a miracle the thing was still standing, especially since Lucy was not. The woman had spent most of her day in the nursery cleaning up – she had bathed before she came down to join the gathering, but the huge amount of work and the cold had exhausted her. Much to Mary's displeasure, she had also left Tom's alphabet on the walls to dry. Jonathan had taken over the piano-playing after Lucy had nearly fallen asleep at it. The woman now slept in one of the chairs by the fire, her black hair being toyed with, unnoticed, by some of the younger girls. Not that there was much for them to play with: Lucy had, after giving up on getting a Marcel Wave to work, bobbed it in the Dutch Boy style – Samantha, personally, felt it looked like she was wearing a helmet, but it made Lucy happy so she wouldn't speak poorly of it. The thought made the Matron smile as she looked around: to her they were all children, even if they weren't hers.

Samantha, herself, was seated by the fire. She had made a point of reading to all the youngest children (and any older children who wanted to listen) on Christmas Eve. The poor things needed all the love they could get, after all. She had already told the little ones a Christmas story, but they had (at least, the eldest two had) begged her to read them another story. The result was that she had Dennis on her lap, with the book, and Tom curled up by her side – she still didn't see how he could be comfortable pressed between her side and the chair's arm. Samuel and Arnold had perched themselves on the chair's thickly stuffed arms so that they could also see the pictures. Hänsel and Gretel wasn't exactly appropriate for the holiday season, but all the little tots seemed to be enjoying it. They hadn't actually gotten very far into the story – the parents were just discussing leaving the children in the forest – when Tommy's hand suddenly slapped down on the small illustration.

"Cat" he cried in delight, pointing rather awkwardly with his little hand.

Samantha smiled. "Yes Tom, that's a cat," she replied. Pointing first at the father and the step mother, she added, "And that's the Daddy and that's the Mummy."

Tom blinked, processing the new words as he regarded the image of the two white-haired characters.

Quietly, one of the little girl's playing with Lucy's hair murmured, "I'd like a Mummy for Christmas. I miss her."

Samantha met her eyes, a soft – pained – smile on her face, expressing the pity and sorrow she could not find appropriate words for. Somehow, she doubted there were any.

Tom stared back and forth between them, confused. "What's a Mummy?"

A strangled, shocked noise escaped the Matron's throat. It hadn't occurred to her that the little boy wouldn't understand; it hadn't occurred to her that he'd never known his mother. It hadn't occurred to her that she was reading a story about children whose parents abandoned them to orphans… It hadn't occurred to her that she might need to explain.

Arnold looked down at the smaller boy with a solemn expression – an expression Samantha didn't believe belonged on any child – and spoke. "Mummy takes care of her children. Feeds them, kisses goodnight, that's Mummy."

Tom's eyes were wide and curious as he listened. The black-haired boy looked to Samantha for confirmation of this then looked back to the illustration of Hänsel's and Gretel's white-haired, elderly parents.

He looked back up at the Matron and gently reached out, his little hand first stroking her white hair, then her wrinkled, kindly, face. "Mummy?" he murmured.

Samantha felt a lump get stuck in her throat as she gently took his hand away from her face. He did not try to reach out again, but his face fell in confusion and happy, hopeful light dimmed and faded from his eyes as his hand was brought down.

"No, sweetie, I'm not your mummy," she said, as gently as she could.

Tom frowned a little. "Why?"

Samantha tried to smile reassuringly. "Because you're an orphan, sweetie," it was hard for her to get the words out while fighting back tears. "You don't have a mummy."

Tom looked up at her, his dark eyes portraying a sombre understanding that seemed out of place on one so young. It was impossible to be sure if he even fully understood the meaning behind the words, or if he only recognised the emotions that had been displayed. Regardless of which it was, the usually talkative boy was eerily silent for the rest of the night. Somehow, the laughter, happy carolling and sweet notes of The Holly and the Ivy, from across the room, seemed out of place and…unreal as the little boy listened to the rest of the story with a blank face.

"The holly bears a berry

As red as any blood,"

"'But I feel very sorry for the poor children, all the same,' said the man."

"And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,"

"The two children had also not been able to sleep for hunger,"

"To do poor sinners good,"

"…and had heard what their step-mother had said to their father."

"O the rising of the sun,"

"Gretel wept bitter tears,"

"And the running of the deer,"

"…and said to Hänsel, 'Now all is over with us.'"

"The playing of the merry organ,"

"'Be quiet, Gretel,' said Hänsel,"

"Sweet singing of the choir."

* * *

**A/N: **I have three things to say.

Firstly, I am in my final year at university and slowly drowning under my assignments. I am also taking two correspondence courses – therefore I have even more deadlines to meet. I bet you can guess where I'm going with this: I'm too busy, at the moment, to keep writing. So this will be my last post for a while – possibly a month or two, as things should become easier for me once I've gotten my correspondence courses finished. After all, fanfiction is not one of my priorities at the moment and historical fiction (even if it's just hist-fic) takes a lot of effort and research time.

Secondly: Thank you to afsd94, for your kind review. I can not begin to say how pleased I am to see someone appreciates my attempt to be as historically accurate as possible (obviously, though, canon will always trump history). A lack of historical accuracy in many of the fics I'd read was actually part of what prompted me to write this. However, I am not perfect; so if you should catch an error or anachronism that has somehow slipped passed me, please do point it out so that I can seek out and remove it. It was lovely to hear from you and I hope that you continue to enjoy the story.

Thirdly: quite some time ago I put up a poll, on my bio, inquiring as to whether or not you would like to see Fact Finders following the chapters – to give further historical information – as I have on livejournal and insanejournal (where the story and Fact Finders can be found under the username tmr_chronicles). I only received one response on the matter and – considering that, the fact that the Fact Finders often rely on images to help the reader visualize the world (obviously not going to work on ) and the amount of extra effort I would have to put into reformatting the Fact Finders to put them up here: that's not enough interest for me to do it. So to the one person who would like to know more: as long as you tell LJ or IJ that you are more than 14 years old, you can access the Fact Finders there without having an account on either or logging in. Just for you, though, I've taken the time to put up a small extract from this chapter's fact finder – everything that didn't really need a picture to go with it. So if any of this seems ridiculously uninformative, remember that this isn't the illustrated version.

* * *

DATE OF CHAPTER: Monday, 24th of December, 1928 – Christmas Eve Day.

PLACE OF CHAPTER: Vauxhall Road Orphanage, Vauxhall, Lambeth, London, England.

TOM'S AGE: Tom is one year, eleven months and 25 days old.

**Tom's Art:** Tom's not quite two years old yet, normally this sort of thing would be expected of a three year old at least …which just goes to show what a little genius they have on their hands.

**Arnold puts a gray handprint on Tom's face:**Previously Tom only had green splotches on his face: with Arnold adding a gray handprint, Tom's face is decorated green and gray – which is very close to green and silver: the Slytherin house colours.

**Alphabet Wallpaper:** Even in the 1920s they would have made sure the nursery wasn't dull and gray (in this case it is only because the wallpaper has been there a long time and faded) and the alphabet is standard for nurseries.

"**Jesus, Mary, Joseph," she mumbled…': **An alternative to things like "Jesus Christ!", "Holy shit!" and others, usually used by the strongly religious because they don't want to take the lord's name in vain. …An exclamation of surprise.

**Paint and Danger:** The paints were oil paints and therefore possibly poisonous if ingested. I'm not going into detail on this because oil paints can still be dangerous (not that_ that _means you should go around ingesting any other sort of paint).

**The Window That Opens Itself:**Actually, Tom did this – just not on purpose. I get the feeling that, if accidental magic can make Neville Longbottom bounce when dropped out a window, it can open a window when Tom is in danger from paint fumes.

**Mary's Cardigan:** When Martha comments on the cardigan Mary is wearing it is green; she was wearing a red cardigan earlier, before having to deal with paint covered children. Mary's green cardigan is decorated with images of Christmas Roses and glass Christmas Baubles. The glass baubles were invented in Germany in 1847 as a replacement for the apples and sweets that were usually used to decorate trees. During World Wars 1 and 2 there was a drop in their use outside Germany, for obvious reasons.

**Martha's View on Children:** Is, as Mary says, very much from the Victorian era (which ended in 1901). Basically, children were viewed as nothing more than small adults and were expected to act like it. In this particular case, Martha is behind the times.

**Coal Mines and Rich Families:**If you don't know British history well, this conversation may not have made much sense. In the Victorian era children as young as six could be sent off to work and they often worked in factories and coal mines – both under poor conditions and (especially in the mines) they could easily die there. Of course, that only applied to the poor families. The reasonably wealthy middle class most of the western world now live in did not exist at that point, it was only just beginning to form. Mary had a large number of siblings – this was common among poor families – and she was probably from a poor family. Martha, however, was from a rich family. This is enough for Mary to find Martha guilty by association as most of the coal was being mined for factories or rich people who could afford it and many factories were producing things that the poor would struggle to afford anyway – like the dolls and other expensive toys Martha and other rich children would have played with.

**January 6****th****, 1900:** So Martha is almost 29 at this point.

**Marcel Wave and Dutch Boy:** two of the most popular female hairstyles of the 1920s, they have become iconic of the era and the Flapper style.

**The Holly and the Ivy:** a British Christmas Carol. Holly and Ivy used to be used as decorations in churches around Christmas.

Lyrics:

The holly and the ivy,

When they are both full grown

Of all the trees that are in the wood

The holly bears the crown

O the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir

The holly bears a blossom

As white as lily flower

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ

To be our sweet Saviour

O the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir

The holly bears a berry

As red as any blood

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ

To do poor sinners good

O the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir

The holly bears a prickle

As sharp as any thorn;

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ

On Christmas Day in the morn.

O the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir

The holly bears a bark

As bitter as any gall;

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ

For to redeem us all.

O the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir

The holly and the ivy

Now both are full well grown,

Of all the trees that are in the wood,

The holly bears the crown.

O the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir.

The Quotes Mixed in with the lyrics in Chapter Eleven come directly from The Grimm Brothers' story Hänsel and Gretel – which I don't have to tell you I don't own because it's so long out of copyright! Same thing goes with the song itself. But I don't own them and I'm not making any money off them, anyway.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: To give you a better idea of what music you would have heard in December 1928, I've compiled a list. Please note that most Christmas songs we are used to (often sung by persons such as Bing Crosby and such) had _not yet been written_. The most obvious example of this is Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer (invented and written 1939).

Others include:

**(I'm Dreaming of a) White Christmas** – first performed: December 1941 by Bing Crosby

**Blue Christmas **– 1948

**Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas** – 1944, sung by Judy Garland

**Winter Wonderland** – 1934

**Let It Snow! (**Let It Snow! Let It Snow!) – 1945

**Jingle Bell Rock** – 1957

**Santa Claus Is Coming to Town** – 1934

**I'll Be Home For Christmas** – 1943

**Frosty the Snowman** – 1950

**Here Comes Santa Claus** (Right Down Santa Claus Lane) – 1947

**Last Christmas** – 1984

**Baby, It's Cold Outside **– 1944, although it is not technically a Christmas song, it has become associated with the season.

**Sleigh Ride** – 1949

So what songs _would_ you have heard?

**One Horse Open Sleigh** (Jingle Bells) – 1857, although the lyrics differed originally from what we now know them as, ironically it was originally not a Christmas song.

**O Christmas Tree** – 1824

**We Three Kings** (Of the Orient) – 1863

**Sussex Carol** – 1919

**Silent Night** – written long before 1914, but definitely translated into English by then, since the German and British soldiers sang it together in certain places during a Christmas cease-fire in World War One.

**I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In** – 17th century

**Here We Come A-Wassailing** – very old, no exact dates know. Americans will know this song as Here We Come a-Caroling, because they (even in the 1920s) apparently couldn't cope with big, old-fashioned words like wassail.

**God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen** – 1833

**The First Nowell** – 1833

**Deck the Halls** – 1881 (the lyrics were American in origin, so I suppose I can forgive them for not being able to pronounce Wassail - and, before anyone flips out here, I'm a Brit who has lived in the States for a large amount of her life; so these jabs, although they are jabs, are friendly ones)

**Coventry Carol** – 1591

**Come Buy My Nice Fresh Ivy **– 1849, Irish

**Boar's Head Carol** – 1521

**Angels We Have Heard On High** – translated from its original French by 1862

**We Wish You A Merry Christmas** – 16th century

**The Twelve Days of Christmas** – 1842


	12. The Blue Book: March 31st, 1929

**Warnings:** Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in later chapters.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** I'm still extremely busy, so there's a high probability that there won't be another post here for another month after this. I'm still doing five university level classes and all five have major assignments coming up soon, thus insuring that I'll be neck-deep in deadlines within the week.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: The Blue Book**

Eleanor Cole sighed as she hurried down the corridor, chasing an errant toddler. She and Dr. Elder had remained at the orphanage while the rest of the staff, and most of the orphans, attended the church service which – being Easter Sunday – was to be longer than the usual. Both she and the doctor had work to do. Moreover, Mary and Lucy had been quite convinced that – after Tom's last little outburst (the thought of which still made Eleanor flush slightly and purse her lips, even though she knew Tom had not been _trying_ to ruin her wedding) – it would be best to leave the toddlers at the orphanage during the long service.

This meant the doctor would have, relative, peace while doing the toddlers' checkups and that Eleanor would not have anyone in the way while she did the orphanage inventory; as she was the one who did finances …a job she had recently inherited from her father-in-law, who loathed working with numbers. Eleanor, on the other hand, preferred numbers to people (numbers, in her opinion, simply made more sense) although she cared deeply for the orphans and their fate – as was natural; having once been one of them herself.

Tom, giggling, dashed passed the disturbed room and headed for the stairs. However, having longer legs, the younger of the two Mrs. Coles was faster and swooped down on him, swinging him into her arms, before he could begin his toddling descent down two flights of stairs. Eleanor, her hands now full of excitable toddler, turned to walk back to the infirmary and deliver the little boy to the doctor.

Tom pouted until they passed the only door between the stairs and the infirmary (which was on the left). Then, quite suddenly, he sat up in her arms and waved.

Somewhat baffled, Eleanor glanced into the room (she could not help noting that the door was open, when it was normally kept closed). It was empty.

Tom was still waving, though, as if someone was waving back.

Not entirely certain she was prepared to cope with the insanity that appeared to be an inherent trait of anyone whose head, when they were standing, was lower than her hip; Eleanor paused. "Tom," she asked, cautiously, "who are you waving to?"

Tom looked at her, his hand falling to his side. "Lady," he said, as if this explained everything.

Eleanor sighed. "Which lady, Tom?"

Tom blinked at her, in clear bafflement. "Lady in small room," he explained.

"Tom, there isn't anyone there," Eleanor said, trying to make the child understand.

"Denny see'd her!" Tom replied, as if that made his explanation more believable. "Denny?"

"DENNY!" another little voice shouted happily in reply.

Eleanor turned around. There, previously out of her line of sight, and definitely where he could not have seen into the room, stood little Dennis Bishop; having clearly escaped the infirmary when she rushed out to catch Tom. She had to wonder how long the one and a half year old had been standing there.

"I almost daren't ask," a dry voice intoned from the appropriate height and location of an adult head, if the adult in question were leaning against the infirmary door.

Looking up, Eleanor saw that there was indeed a head there; it belonged to the orphanage doctor, the rest of whom was standing beneath her head, to which it was attached, the respectable way. "Tom thought he saw a woman," Eleanor explained.

"Lady," Tom interrupted, correcting her.

Eleanor attempted to keep herself from looking heavenward, as if that would grant her extra patience with the boy. Choosing to simply accept the toddler's 'correction', she continued with her sentence; "Lady, in the other room – but it's empty."

"That is not particularly surprising," Martha said, coolly. "Is this not the age they usually begin hallucinating?"

"Martha!" Eleanor cried, sounding half amused and half scandalized. "Young children have very active imaginations, which make them–"

"Hear and see things which do not exist: a standard definition for 'hallucinating' and often a sign of either a fever or insanity."

Eleanor did not respond, unable to tell for certain whether the doctor was serious. So it was in a companionable silence that the two women (each holding a toddler) entered the infirmary.

"Put him on the bed," Martha instructed her companion, bluntly, placing her own (squirming) ward on the bed in question.

Gently placing Tom on the specified bed – where, she noted, Arnold and Samuel were already waiting – Eleanor sighed. "If you are not opposed to the idea, Martha, I think I might start the inventory and leave you to work."

Martha nodded, slightly. "That would be an agreeable course of action," she replied.

As Eleanor turned to leave, Samuel began edging his way toward the end of the bed – nearer to where the door was.

In a single, swift move – by pivoting on the ball of one foot – Martha spun back around to face her wards at the sort of speed one would often associate with the crack of a whip or a flash of lightning. The cold, quiet, command came just as quickly, as if she had yet to finish turning when she began to speak. "Do _no__**t**_ move."

Eleanor had to stifle a laugh as she left, knowing – by the sight of four sets of very wide eyes – that Martha had everything under control. The doctor was scary; Eleanor knew that because she had still been an orphan (rather than a staff member) when Martha Elder had first began to work at the orphanage. She had seen that behaviour and had that acerbic tongue directed at herself and her friends enough times to know. She just never thought she would find it so amusing to see it turned on others. The irony of the situation was amusing …that and the stunned expressions on the four boys' faces.

_Who would have ever thought that a slight over-enunciation of the letter T could be so utterly petrifying?_ Eleanor thought, once again having to stifle a giggle.

It would not be until some time later that the younger Mrs. Cole returned to the infirmary.

* * *

Having completed the inventory for the three lowest levels of the orphanage (the basement classroom certainly needed airing out as soon as could be practically arranged) Eleanor climbed the stairs and made her way down the empty corridor. Chuck, the ginger old tomcat who had adopted the orphanage several years ago, followed her; rubbing his head against her legs, walking between them and generally making a nuisance of himself. He did not actually belong to the orphanage, he was simply a stray that had moved in and been allowed to stay – after having him checked for diseases, it had been decided that he would be safer than rat poison for exterminating rodents, as there were so many children around.

Chuck was actually just a pet name that had stayed with him. He had been named Chauncey when the orphanage had first taken him in. But after numerous occasions of Dr. Elder telling anyone who was in the vicinity that, if the cat were allowed into her infirmary, she would "chuck the disease infested beast out the window" he had simply become Chuck. A few well-aimed kicks later (although few had actually hit their target), the grumpy old tomcat had developed a mortal fear of getting too close to the Doctor's doorway. However Chuck, as so many cats are wont to do, behaved as if it were his right and his duty to make absolutely certain that the good doctor was regularly reminded that her infirmary was the _only_ place in the orphanage that he was not allowed to enter. As such, when Eleanor Cole opened the infirmary door, he sat down directly across the hall and (looking directly into the infirmary and thus in the direct line of sight of anyone looking out) began to bathe.

Martha, who had just finished the check up of a very annoyed Samuel and only had Tom left, looked up when her colleague entered. In fact, she looked right past her colleague and, with narrowed eyes, at the ginger tomcat innocently licking his paw, on the other side of the corridor.

"Not finished yet?" Eleanor inquired, surprised. "It is not like you to loiter."

"Efficiency is rather difficult to maintain when one is attempting to apply a glass thermometer to a kicking and caterwauling child," Martha replied, tersely. Then, allowing her discomfort to show only in the momentary pause, she added: "If you find no objection, I may put on a record; as I believe it could encourage the children to behave like intelligent and civilized beings." The doctor observed her colleague's expression for a moment, nodded slightly to herself and walked toward the door which led directly to her bedroom.

"Martha," Eleanor called, just before her colleague could disappear.

The doctor turned, slightly, and raised an eyebrow.

"The records for the finances," Eleanor said, knowing the unvoiced inquiry would be obvious.

"The blue log book, on my desk," Martha replied. A moment later her bedroom door closed.

Eleanor nodded to herself and walked over to the doctor's desk, to find the log book. The infirmary was the one place in the orphanage that she did not have to concern herself with accounting for and recording every object after finding them. Martha had always been meticulous in her record keeping. However, that was hardly surprising as she was charged with keeping track of potentially dangerous medicines (as well as having the only key to the cupboard in which the only alcohol allowed inside the orphanage was kept – which she also kept meticulous records of).

Tom looked out of the infirmary door and smiled widely. "Kitty!" he exclaimed, happily.

Knowing that Chuck would never take the risk of suffering Martha's wrath, Eleanor did not look up from the desk to reply. "Yes, Tom, that is a kitty. His name is Chauncey."

"Chaun-ney," Tom repeated.

"Chuck," Arnold helpfully added.

Eleanor could hear Martha moving things around in her bedroom – which was hardly surprising, as the woman wasn't exactly known for being keen to have unnecessary noise and wouldn't have her records somewhere easily accessible. Frankly, Eleanor was surprised she even had records.

The doctor's desk was, like her record keeping, meticulous. A small area was set aside for pencils, another for fountain pens (all Watermans' and Esterbrooks') – apparently Martha kept a separate pen for each of the ink colours she used (_and why exactly did the woman need additional, expensive, colours? Was simple black or blue not enough?). _A stack of books sat on the edge of the desk, next to the old-fashioned paraffin lamp which had a tall glass chimney and was exactly in line with the black, leather-bound journal on the other end of the desk. The stack of books, Eleanor noted, was made entirely of notebooks and log books of equal size – stacked as if with a ruler – and apparently ordered by the colour of their leather covers. They were, no doubt, an expensive set. Three brown calf-bound notebooks topped the stack, then two of a deep red (there was a third, a log book, which lay neatly open on the centre of the desk, with another Waterman fountain pen half an inch to its right – a quick glance identified it as being Martha's record of that day's check ups). Beneath the red log books were two in a bold black and then… two dark blue log books at the bottom of the stack. There was absolutely no way to know which was which or which the doctor had meant.

Based on the sounds emanating from Martha's bedroom, Eleanor presumed her colleague had found her records and was debating which would be the appropriate choice. There was nothing to do but pick a blue book and open it. With a sigh, Eleanor carefully removed the uppermost blue log book and opened it to the page on which the bookmark ribbon had been placed.

It was immediately obvious that this was not the blue book to which Martha had been referring. The page was a list. Date, time, place, persons present, occurrence and another page number attached to each entry. The penmanship was unmistakably Martha's …and in each entry, the same name circled in the same expensive and frivolous red ink; _Tom_. Eleanor could practically feel her blood run cold.

Tom, meanwhile, was ignoring Arnolds' warning that the kitty was "mean and hissy" (and that he had the scratches to prove it) and had climbed off the bed. The small, dark haired boy sank down to his knees and leaned forward (toward the tomcat) with his little left hand outstretched.

Samuel, personally, was amazed that Tommy managed to so nearly flatten himself against the ground. Arnold was slightly worried that the kitty might actually come over and start hissing. Dennis simply thought that everything the older boys did was fascinating.

Whether it was on instinct, or a feeling in his gut, or some rationalization he could never have explained – as he still lacked the vocabulary to do so – Tom's every action was aimed at appearing none-threatening to the cat that he very much wanted to touch. "Kitty," he murmured, very softly. "Hello kitty."

Chuck languidly turned his head to find the human making the noise. His green eyes pinpointed the toddler almost instantaneously.

Tom gently rubbed his fingers together, trying to encourage the cat to come to him. Eleanor didn't notice. In Martha's bedroom, the sound of a gramophone being cranked up could be heard.

Eleanor couldn't help reading the list – it started with December 31st, 1926 "unusual timing" and simply continued. Incident after incident, things which could easily be cases of not seeing something properly or forgetting something, things that meant nothing – but Martha had put them together. Martha saw some sort of pattern where Eleanor saw none. Entries were sparse until after New Years Eve, 1927, as if the doctor had started the list then and only put down earlier the instances she could recall at the time.

_**1927**_

_1 Jan/Just past midnight/Infirmary/I, Mrs. S.C. E.W. Tom/unusual timing/p.4_

_5 Apr/6am approx./Nursery/L.J. Tom/odd thump: anti-gravity sleep, mis-seen?/p.5_

_31 Dec/Nearly midnight/ Corridor, outside staffroom/ L.J. S.C. A.F Tom/Toy, anti-gravity/p.6_

_**1928**_

_1 Jan/2:42am/Infirmary/I, C.B Tom/unusual heat from blankets: static electricity?/p.7_

_14 Feb/12:24pm/Drawing room/Tom L.J. Mrs S.C. J.S. C.B A.F./reported plant growth/p.8_

_21 Mar/3:06pm/Infirmary/I, M.B. A.F. S.C. Tom D.B./thermometer moves, repetitive/p.9_

_29 Jun/5:30am approx./Nursery/M.B Tom./reported bottle falls, untouched: how?/p.10_

_13 Jul/1:35pm/Stonehenge/I, M.B D.B. Tom/Mimics serpent; odd behaviour in animal/p.11_

_19 Aug/11:23am/V.G. Churchyard/ M.B. L.J. Rev. H.H., others nearby/points at orphan's grave/p.12_

_14 Sep/4:51am/Nursery/I, A.F. S.C. Tom D.B./moonlight seen through window on new moon/p.13_

_4 Oct/1:45pm/Nursery/M.B. L.J. A.F. S.C. Tom D.B/curtains difficult to shut: unusually so/p.14_

_28 Oct/7:11am/Nursery/Mrs. S.C. M.B. L.J. A.F. S.C. Tom D.B./Mice join Tom for breakfast/p.15_

_5 Nov/10:47pm/Nursery/L.J. A.F. S.C. Tom D.B/L enters, momentary sight of odd lights in room/p.16_

_24 Dec/unknown: night?/M.B. L.J. A.F. S.C. Tom/L & M's bedroom/silent removal: heavy objects/p.17_

_24 Dec/1-5 am?/Nursery/A.F. S.C Tom D.B/Window opens itself/p.18_

_24 Dec/1-5am?/Nursery/A.F. S.C. Tom D.B/paints with intelligence: alphabet, beyond age/p.19_

_24 Dec/1-6am?/Nursery/A.F. S.C. Tom D.B/temperature elevated despite environs/p.20_

_28 Dec/throughout/Infirmary/I, Tom/unusual lethargy cont. as if overexerted, nothing since above/p.21_

_**1929**_

_6 Jan/11:23am/V.G. Churchyard/I, M.B. L.J. Rev. H.H., others nearby/points at orphans' grave/p.22_

_24 Jan/approx. 10:24pm/Nursery/M.B. Tom/reported : __clearly__ says 'Octo' 'bear' 'black'/p.23_

_14 Feb/4:21pm/Infirmary/I, Tom, others near./fever, complaints of chill: hot milk cold in minutes/p.24_

The worst, however, was the very last entry – the ink, though no longer wet, was certainly quite fresh.

_31 Mar_, it read,_ 8:34 approx./corridor, outside Dist. R/Mrs. E.C. Tom D.B/hallucinates: 'Lady' /p.25_

Eleanor felt sick.

Chuck, on the other hand, seemed to feel brave as he – after a few moments deliberation – sauntered into the infirmary and rubbed faces with a delighted toddler. It was not long before both were flat out on the floor; the larger contentedly scratching behind the smaller's left ear, while the smaller rolled on his back and wriggled closer to his new groomer and three little boys watched from the bed – showing various levels of surprise on their small faces.

Shaking, and still unaware of the infirmary's visitor, Eleanor shut the book quickly and hurriedly put it back in the pile whence it came – removing the other blue book faster than she normally would have and at the same time hoping, somewhat frantically, that the doctor would assume any disorder in the stack to be a result of Eleanor retrieving the log book for the finances.

What sounded like it might be a Foxtrot started to come through Martha's bedroom door, shortly followed by the doctor, herself.

"I am afraid I am currently using the desk, however…" Martha's speech did not trail off, it stopped dead with such finality that anyone who was paying attention could tell that she was furious.

Eleanor froze, knowing that – at any moment – the doctor would stalk over to examine the log books and then …actually, Eleanor wasn't certain what the doctor would do to her, which somehow made the suspense all the worse.

Martha's eyes narrowed. She took a step forward.

From the other room, the now recognisable (if one knew the tune) sound of My Blackbirds are Bluebirds Now echoed, as the black Domino record continued to turn.

"Eleanor," the doctor said coldly.

The younger Mrs. Cole couldn't quite keep her eyes from flickering toward the stack of books, for a moment, before meeting the doctor's stony gaze.

"Pre_cise_ly wha_t _is that _thing_ doing in here?"

The soft hiss saved her from answering. It was Chuck, who had just noticed the doctor's presence. With his ears pressed back, his back arched and his fur fluffed out and standing up, he looked just as wild and uncontrollable as he had the first day on which he had appeared. Next to him, Tom was pouting.

Eleanor blinked, realising for the first time that not only was the doctor referring to the cat, rather than the books, but also that the cat had actually entered the infirmary.

Chuck, still hissing, began backing toward the infirmary door as Martha stalked ever closer. Just as he reached the doorway, the doctor swung her leg in a powerful, but precisely controlled, kick.

The sickening crack Eleanor had expected to hear was surprisingly absent as the ginger tom yowled and bolted down the corridor.

"Kitty…" the black haired Tom called, sounding quite heartbroken. He looked up, his face clearly expressing that he was saddened by the departure of the feline and he wanted to be comforted. He held his arms out to the doctor towering silently above him. "...Up?"

Eleanor had seen stones which had more expressive faces than Martha's. The doctor did not move, did not twitch. She just stood, staring down the boy below her. Finally, her eyes narrowed – a small unnoticeable move – barely a fraction of an inch. Then she did the most unexpected thing. Without further acknowledgement, she turned and walked away.

Tom's arms fell as he watched her walk away, his eyes wide and his expression uncomprehending. His little lips moved silently, as if trying to form words he did not yet know as he searched his vocabulary for a request he could not name. _Stop. Wait. Come Back. Don't leave me. Don't go. _"…T-tha?" he croaked, weakly.

Eleanor couldn't understand the reaction. The boy was not even near the doctor very much, she could see no reason for him to be so upset. She looked over at the doctor, who was washing her hands in the small sink near her desk. It was only when she met the doctor's dark gaze in the mirror, which hung above the sink, that she began to understand. Martha, whose wroth was feared throughout the orphanage, had never _been_ angry with Tom before. He did not know how to cope with it, nor could he understand what he had done wrong.

Her hands sufficiently washed and dried, the doctor returned to the stunned toddler, scooped him up and deposited him on the examination table.

"Eleanor," Martha said. "Kindly bring me one of the thermometers from the basin on the counter. This one feels too warm."

Eleanor felt as if it had only taken a moment for her to do so (and, perhaps, it had) but when she turned back, Martha had already removed Tom's shorts and underwear, although one of her hands was closed tightly around Tom's little ankles – to stop them kicking at her.

With a screech of "NO," Tom squirmed, trying to avoid the cold medical instrument the doctor was attempting to use to measure his temperature.

There was a crash from behind them.

Martha turned, one hand still raise holding the thermometer and the other still constraining the toddler's feet, and raised an eyebrow.

In spite of previously sitting, quite steadily, on the centre of the counter, the basin holding the thermometers had somehow fallen backwards – as if shoved off the counter – and hit the floor. Naturally, upon impact the glass thermometers had shattered, leaving a mess of glass and a significant amount of mercury on the loose.

The corner of Martha's mouth twitched, but only just. "If you will go find something with which to collect the glass, I shall begin attempting to recapture the mercury," she said, "which shall, no doubt, provide our young wards with almost endless entertainment."

With a shaky nod – unable to forget what she had read – Eleanor nodded and made for the door. But, glancing back into the infirmary once more, the last thing she saw, before she left, was Martha reaching for the blue book. Her unease growing, she left.

When she had completed her notes, Martha glanced sideways at the door – but whether or not she knew what the young Mrs. Cole had seen was impossible to tell.

Gently, the doctor lifted Tom (once again fully dressed) and placed him on the bed with the other boys. "Mercury," she told them, holding a sheet of paper for them to see, "is an element, which can be poisonous, also known as hydrargyrum or Quicksilver – there is a very good reason for this." Tom's check up would simply have to wait.


	13. Symbols: April to September, 1929

**Warnings: **Occasional violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in later chapters.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad. Nor do I own William Shakespeare's fifth sonnet, the first four lines of which appear in this chapter. I am making no money of the Bard's work.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Symbols**

On the twenty-third of April, Dr. Martha Elder found herself stalking toward the orphanage nursery for two reasons of differing importance. The first was to discuss with Lucy Jones the fact that she had not only failed to return the book she had borrowed at the appointed time, but had also failed to keep the book in its original (that is: pristine) condition. That the doctor had found it lying haphazardly on the dining table at breakfast, with several of its pages dog-eared, was completely unacceptable and Martha had every intention of making that fact known to her co-worker. The second reason was to check up on the newest arrival at the orphanage – a little girl, just barely four, who had been hesitant to put weight on her right foot during her medical examination. The doctor had found nothing wrong during her check up, but if – two days later – the girl still wasn't putting weight on her foot, she would have to be examined again.

However, when she opened the door all thoughts of the damage done to her copy of Shakespeare's sonnets left her head. Her first thoughts were to the observation of her patient. Clarice, the newly orphaned girl, sat upon the floor with utmost care – balanced just so, that her right foot need neither brush against something nor have weight upon it – by Lucy's right side. Martha set, mentally, a time for which the girl would be re-examined.

As it was Mary's day off, Martha had no need to look for her in the room. Lucy sat, facing away from the door and three of four walls, with Clarice to her right and Samuel and Arnold to her left. From the way she held herself it was obvious she held a book in her lap. Insofar as analysing what the subject was; there was no need, Lucy's gentle murmuring to the eldest three made clear that she was trying to teach them their alphabet and the concept of putting letters together. Dennis sat diagonally behind her, playing quietly with some blocks. But Tom stood by the wall – and the vibrant, painted, letters he himself had made – his little left hand tracing letter by letter: matching his own soft murmurs, not the gentle coaching of Miss Jones; that was not meant for his young ears.

That he understood there was a connection between the sounds, the shapes and their order was all too clear to the woman in the doorway and, unbidden, words flittered through her mind and just barely passed her lips. "Those hours, that with gentle work did frame." Unnoticed in the doorway, as in entering the room, but noting Tom's gaze miss her as he glanced – solemn – at the lesson not meant for him, her feet quietly stepped. "The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell." Step by steps she crossed the room, the near silent recitation suffering none from the unseen movement, itself going unheard. "Will play the tyrants to the very same." As she sank to her knees by his side, the sound of her whispers and her breath caused Tom to turn – his eyes on her and wide. "And that unfair which fairly doth excel."

Silence reigned between them, as they were level; eye to eye, both waiting for the other to act first. And if Tom's eyes, first, had shown him to be shocked and wary, then – with a tilt of his dark head – after they were curious, comprehending the doctor's interest and the beauty of her words; although not the words themselves.

Gently, and still silent, he lifted one little hand and placed it on her cheek. His expression, most visible in his deep blue eyes, was somehow mature beyond his years – yet somehow innocent and childish also – and the doctor could not quite shake the feeling that, in some strange way, he was thanking her for her attention …thanking her for noticing him.

Her decision made for her before she realized she had one to make, the doctor slipped his little left hand into her own and raised it to trace the first vibrant letter that he had painted there, the year before.

"A," she breathed, helping his little fingers to trace the letter. "A".

"A," he repeated, just as quietly as she had, allowing her to move his hand to the blue letter which followed.

"B," she intoned carefully, tracing the letter with his little hand. She then moved it back to the first. "A," she murmured, "B".

"A," he repeated again, allowing his hand to be guided around the letter a third time. With minimal force, he moved his hand – still covered by hers – to the second letter. "B," he said, then – far less certain – he hesitantly pulled his hand over to the third letter and looked questioningly into the doctor's face. "C?" he asked, his voice quivering only slightly with a mixture of excitement, hope and uncertainly.

The slight inclining of her head, and the obvious approval in her eyes, answered the question for him and he allowed his hand to be guided along the next letter.

* * *

By the time May had come, Tom was confident in the recitation of his alphabet (the mixing up of W and U not withstanding) and beginning to go over his basic numbers. In fact, due to his – loud – attempts to explain what he had learned to little Dennis (who seemed quite content to follow the slightly older boy around), this had resulted in a request from Eleanor Cole: that Martha please take care of Tom and Dennis on Pentecost, rather than taking them to the church.

This had resulted in a trip to the local park for three, during which the doctor had commented that Dennis' now honey blonde hair was "not aesthetically unappealing" in combination with his brown eyes – which had been followed by a futile attempt on her part to explain that babies and very young children often did not have the hair colour they would for the rest of their lives.

Five minutes later Tom had attempted to repeat this phrasing and wound up accidentally informing a passing young lady and her, rather large, gentleman friend that she was "not aztectly peeling".

Martha had apologised on Tom's behalf – explaining that they ought not be too displeased with him, as it was not his fault he existed – and they had left the park soon after.

* * *

The afternoon of June the twenty-first found Tom Riddle sitting on a blanket, in a grassy field, at the orphanage's usual countryside location of choice for their summer outings. The sun was shining brightly, the weather pleasant and the occasional butterfly passing by was sufficient distraction for Dennis while Tom worked. He wasn't entirely certain why Arnie and Sammy and Donny and Clarice got to learn more about their letters with Mary and Lucy and he didn't – Donny was only a year older than him, after all, and Arnie was moving to the big boys' rooms soon (or so Mary often said and Sammy often complained). But Tom was determined to prove that he could master his letters just as easily as the older orphans.

Tom knew what he was doing was very important. Tha had shown him how to make his name with his blocks – that had been a long time ago – and he was determined to show her he could still do it on his own.

He couldn't help glancing suspiciously at the nearby blanket where Mary, Lucy and the others were. Martha had, as usual, set up her blanket as far from the others as possible and Tom had – upon being put down – lugged his blocks over to sit with her (much to the shock, and in certain cases amusement, of the orphanage staff; who knew Martha had been trying to get away from the children). Dennis had followed as soon as he realised that the doctor was not going to send Tom away.

At that particular moment, however, Martha was not with them. She had left to retrieve their lunches from Simon who, amongst other duties, was the orphanage cook and resident protector of the sandwiches. So Tom warily watched the older toddlers and their watchers, just in case they decided not to let him work with his blocks – they did not let him join in the lessons, after all.

One blanket over, Mary stood; having become concerned by the glances Tom continued to sneak in their direction. The boy had become increasingly disinclined to play with the older children and more prone to pull little Dennis Bishop into a corner with him to play, ignoring whatever the older children were doing. Yet, the last three times she had tried to ask, Tom had insisted that it was the older children (and, upsettingly, Mary herself) who were excluding him. Not in so many words, but his meaning had been painfully clear.

Tom hunched over when she sat down next to him, his expression angry and, possibly, guilty…or was that her imagination?

"Tom;" she said sharply, "show me your hands."

The little boy glowered at her, but he uncurled himself – revealing the three wooden blocks, with faded paint, he had been hiding. "Mine," he snarled, pulling the blocks closer to his chest.

Mary sighed. "Tommy, you have to learn to share. What if Dennis also wants to play with the blocks?"

"NO!" Tom yelled. "Mine."

"Tommy…"

Fixing her with such a fierce glare that the orphanage worker fell silent, Tom slowly – pointedly – slammed the blocks down one by one in front of her, insuring both that she got a good look at each letter carved on the side and that each came down with a satisfying 'thwap'.

"TOM," Tom said, drawing his finger along the top of the blocks, in the same order he'd put them down. "Tom, me. Mine."

Mary stared in shock at the blocks which, albeit from right to left, did read TOM in carved and painted letters. She got the distinct feeling that he had only put them in the wrong order because he wasn't used to the letters facing somebody else. He would be reading them upside down, after all, so it would look right to him.

A cellophane wrapped sandwich landed between them.

"Fish paste," Martha said coolly.

Tom smiled brilliantly up at her, carefully unwrapped his meal and shoved the majority of the sandwich into his mouth at once.

Both women winced at his table manners.

Mary stood and turned to address the doctor.

"I do not understand why you are not teaching him with the others, I would have thought his display of art last year was proof of his intelligence," Martha said, her foot nudging several blocks in Tom's direction.

Mary sighed; wondering why, exactly, the good doctor never allowed anyone to say what they intended to. "I know he was very clever to mimic those symbols, but he's too young to learn to read."

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Then why's he doing it behind your back?"

Mary turned around and stared. If she had known that Martha had been responsible for the newly apparent blocks, she might have realised that she had pushed them to Tom in a specific order, but she did not know that and, subsequently, was too stunned to speak. For, while her back was turned, Tom had – half his sandwich in one hand – organized the blocks into a new order. The new blocks read: MARY.

Mary, shocked, simply walked away – unable to bear being around the openly smug doctor – while Martha sat down between the two little boys and began to help Dennis with his lunch. Martha was quite certain that if she had not sent the blocks to Tom in the right order and quick succession he would not have been able to figure out what the letters meant separately. At the speed they had been sent, however, they would have appeared to him as a full word – which he had simply tidied up.

Tom tilted his head as he looked over his blocks and shoved more of his lunch into his mouth. To the doctor it looked as if he was noticing a pattern of some kind in the two words, which he had sat next to each other on the blanket.

Tentatively, as if unsure of what he was doing, Tom removed the A and the R from Mary.

Martha nearly dropped her sandwich. The blocks – impossible, surely – now spelled TOM M Y.

The doctor could only presume this meant he had somehow realised that the A and the R did not fit the overall pattern made by the blocks. …perhaps she should not have been so surprised. She had come to the conclusion that he was a young genius, after all.

* * *

On August the sixteenth, Clara Beckett was being prepared to go home with her new family the next day. This involved one last check up from Martha before she would be allowed to go.

Tom, on the other hand, had the flu. The unhappy toddler had insisted (even to the point where he struggled out of bed and tried to get across the room) that the room was too cold and that he be moved to a bed on the other side of the infirmary.

As this would get him to stop whining, Martha had acquiesced without much of a fight. Before she had, however, the boy's fever had finally broken – which coincided with the warm broth Simon had sent up becoming chilled at an unusual speed. Not one to let the mysterious override the practical, Martha had made note of it and gotten on with her job. The fever itself had not been high enough to be considered dangerous, but Tom had described every hand that touched him as 'icy' after the fact.

In his new bed, closer to Martha's own bedroom than the disturbed room and Martha's desk, Tom had mercifully ceased to complain …for about ten minutes. Watching Clara's final medical examination from the other end of the room had not entertained him for long and – being tired, sore and short tempered – he made this fact known.

The doctor did not keep toys in her infirmary – their place, in her opinion, was the nursery – so, in exasperation, she had given him the copy of Shakespeare's sonnets that Lucy had ruined. While this had made it possible for Martha to continue her older patient's examination without further difficulty, it had also resulted in the boy alternating between loud delight whenever he spotted a word he recognised (this was invariably bad for his sore throat as it would be putting excess stress on his swollen tonsils, but rarely happened as 'Tom' was not commonly found in the Bard's poetry) and extreme frustration at the sheer number of words he could not recognise. This latter was not something Martha was particularly concerned about. If the boy attempted to use 'thou' or some such in conversation then she would concern herself with the matter, but not before then. In fact, as the last ten minutes had been (somewhat painfully, considering the effort the child was putting into it) punctuated with a little voice calling out "h…a…t" "i…s" "y…o…u…r" at various times, then silence, Martha was beginning to think the boy had given up. Not that she could honestly blame him; as most children his age could not even hope to recognise that many letters on a page, or that there was some form of pattern to the division of the letters – although he obviously did not yet know what that was. To him, so far, it was just the alphabet in an unusual – and somewhat repetitive – order …with spaces in between. He had clearly grasped that the letters came in bunches; beyond that, though, he had not yet been able to decipher it.

The book hit the floor as Tom rolled over and burrowed deeper into his covers. The doctor nodded to Clara and let her go. That the girl was in perfect health went unsaid. It was obvious – Martha would not have allowed her to leave if she was not in perfect health, after all.

Once the girl had left her infirmary, Dr. Elder perched herself on the edge of Tom's bed and tucked his blankets more tightly around him. Working on the hypothesis that Tom had curled up in frustration, not pain, she turned his gently onto his back – so that he was looking, or more accurately glaring, at her – and held out two fingers.

"How many?" she asked quietly (aware the boy most likely still had a headache).

"Two," Tom replied, pronouncing her an idiot with his tone alone.

She retracted one finger. "Now how many?"

"One," Tom said, becoming slightly more interested in the game.

Martha changed fingers again.

"Four," Tom blurted out, bypassing the usual question completely.

The corner of her mouth twitched slightly as she extended her other hand.

This time it took Tom longer to come up with the correct answer (or to answer at all) and she got the distinct feeling he had needed to count twice – it was the slight squint that gave it away – but eventually he informed her that there were eight.

After a short while, the doctor decided to send one of the older orphans to the kitchen to have the broth reheated. Holding up one finger on one hand and two on the other, Martha attempted to figure out if Tom thought he could handle two slices of bread with his broth.

Tom counted both hands and asked for three.

* * *

Six days before Dennis' second birthday, Tom surprised Mary and Lucy again. Neither woman had seen Tom working on his alphabet or numbers that much since the summer trip when Tom had made the words 'Tom' and 'Mary' and Lucy was quite willing to pass it off as Mary's imagination, although Mary herself was uncertain. She was reasonably secure in her belief that, somehow, Tom had been assisted when he had formulated her name, but she was also reasonably certain that Tom had managed to put his name together on his own.

Earlier in the day, Mary had been working on very basic reading with the older toddlers, while Lucy entertained the littler ones. The children's basic alphabet book they used for teaching was still open; showing an illustration of a reclining feline, with "C as in Cat" written underneath it. The book itself was at least fifteen years old and the wear and tear of near constant use was terribly apparent.

When Martha had walked in, Tom's entire demeanour had changed. He had been, reluctantly, playing with Arnold, Donald, Samuel and Dennis (as well as a fairly battered old set of toy soldiers) because Mary and Lucy had come to the conclusion that he was isolating himself too much and had pushed him to play with the others at every opportunity. Despite their best efforts, he almost always wound up at the edge of the group watching the others play. But when the doctor appeared his eyes sparkled and he immediately jumped up from where he had stretched out on the floor. The wide, excited, smile on his face was impossible to miss. The momentary, miniscule smile that barely graced the corner of the doctor's mouth, however, was not only easy to miss; it was only caught by Tom and by Lucy, who could hardly believe what she had seen. After all, Martha hated children; she certainly wasn't going to smile at one.

Tom toddled over to the wooden blocks in the corner and, without so much as a moment's hesitation, pulled three out. Proudly he turned and placed them on the floor – clearly directed at the doctor, not his main caretakers or peers – in an obvious and definite order. This time the word even read from left to right for those who were meant to see it.

"Cat," Tom said, decisively, drawing his hand across the blocks in one swift motion.

The doctor's slight, small smile was more visible the second time.

Tom was mostly right about the blocks.

KAT, they said.

…Mary made a mental note that Tom would probably struggle with spelling when he got older.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm still extremely busy, so there's a high probability that there won't be another post here for another month after this. I'm still doing five university level classes and all five have major assignments coming up soon, thus insuring that I'll be neck-deep in deadlines within the week.

**To Bizarre Dreamscapes:** I'm glad you like the story and appreciate the detail, especially considering how much research I put into it. I dare say part of the reason there aren't many reviews is that it is an uncommon part of canon to write about. I actually started writing it because I was sick of seeing so many fanfics that claimed to be about Tom's youth and then spent three chapters maximum – only showing what we'd learned in canon – and then skipping straight to Hogwarts. If you are interested, and haven't already taken a look, there are links in my profile to the Livejournal and Insanejournal accounts I have for this story – which have separate posts where I detail the information I have used for the chapter and give further information. I also tend to update them slightly faster.

**To Beefsister:** I assume that you're referring to the paragraphs on page 250 of HBP, in the chapter The Secret Riddle which read:

"Mrs Cole helped herself, almost absent-mindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheek-bones. Then she said, 'He's a funny boy.'

'Yes,' said Dumbledore. 'I thought he might be.'

'He was a funny baby, too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was …odd.'"

There are several facts we can glean from this, not the least of which is that there is literally nothing said about Tom not laughing, as well as quite a few (possibly contradictory) logical conclusions that can be drawn. I try to use syllogisms to double check the conclusions I reach. For example: the way this scene is portrayed it is clear that this is most likely the first time Dumbledore has any reason to think Tom might be unusual, we also know – however – that Dumbledore used the past tense "I thought he might", which leads to the logical proposition: Dumbledore may be used to muggles describing muggleborns as odd. Or, a simpler syllogism: a) inebriated people are not necessarily trustworthy or accurate sources of information, b) Mrs. Cole had drank a significant amount of gin, enough for "two pink spots" to have "appeared high on her cheek-bones", therefore c) we can not trust that Mrs Cole is a reliable source of information, even if Dumbledore does.

We also don't know if Mrs Cole had a reason, or no good reason, to immediately assume Tom's guilt in every instance. Then there's the fact that Mrs. Cole is only one person and what we saw was (as she openly stated it was hard to prove anything against Tom) only her opinion. The Pensieve shows what actually happens – the truth – but if someone stated something as fact and are incorrect the Pensieve will show what was said, even if it is inaccurate. Moreover, we don't know for a fact that she was taking care of Tom the majority of the time. For all we know she got that impression of Tom because he rarely cried in her presence or the staff in charge of the infants simply never mentioned it that much – obviously, we can agree to disagree here, but since Tom definitely shows a large number of very real emotions (although mainly negative) when he is older, I have taken the view that there was a lot more going on and a lot more to factor in that just the general gist of what was said. After all, he was clearly amused (and laughing) when Harry was running from the Basilisk with a hat over his eyes – certainly not a nice feeling, but an existent one nonetheless.

I also have made a point on every occasion (except that of his birth, where crying is the reflex response to the struggle he had to actually come out) at which I have Tom crying, to state in the prose that Tom does not cry often. Therefore, that the incidents shown are the exceptions to the rule, not the rule itself.

JKR stated at one point (not in the books) that no one is born evil. At another point, however, she stated that Tom was born evil. I find these two statements to be contradictory and, since we also have to factor in that what we have been shown is coming not only through Harry's eyes but is also only what Dumbledore decided to show him to help get him ready to kill Voldemort, have chosen to go with JKR's first statement – that no one is born evil.

And all that to say that, in the end, I suppose we shall simply have to agree to disagree. And no, I'm not angry or defensive (actually I'm thrilled that someone out there cares enough to bring the topic up), I'm just explaining the logic behind my portrayal of his character.


	14. Black Friday: October 24th, 1929

**Warnings:** Violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in later chapters.

**Disclaimer: **Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Black Friday**

It was October 24th,

And deep in the night,

But one little figure,

Was moving with fright.

At a time when all children,

Ought be snugg'd warm in bed,

Our young Tom Marvolo,

Dared not rest his head.

* * *

The entire day had been abnormal. Actually, the entire week had been abnormal.

It had begun on the 22nd, at breakfast – which the orphanage toddlers only ate in the dinning hall if they were all old enough to mostly feed themselves, the breakfast of the day was neither complicated nor messy and if they were all behaving themselves as they got up: therefore almost never – when Dr. Elder and Harold Cole had picked up their newspapers. After a few moments of tense silence from both – they sat at opposite ends of the staff table – each had turned to their neighbour and shown that neighbour the financial page. A wave of quiet and deceptively calm-looking panic had built up, moving swiftly towards the matron (who was in the middle) from both ends. Most of that Tuesday had, to Tom, gone by in a flurry of fast moving and agitated adults, confused older children and being handed from person to person while the younger children ran wild. There had been raised voices in the staffroom, but only once. Breakfast the next day had restored calm and order to the staff – except Mary and Lucy, who were so concerned by what the London Times had written the day before that they had brought the toddlers to breakfast in the dinning hall and been forced to spend most of their time cleaning up the toddlers' porridge; which had managed to get all over their charges and sometimes across the room.

Tom had seen that page of the Times on the 22nd, but he didn't know what the words had meant. Lucy had blanched the one time he had tried to ask. But the calm – real calm – that had come after breakfast, or rather after the arrival of the papers, on the 23rd had made it clear enough that Tom needn't be concerned by all the adults' strange behaviour. They were adults; after all, it was just what they did.

Tom had liked that calm, everyone had stopped being worried and the right people were taking care of him again. It had been wonderful …until the night of the day after, when he had been getting ready for bed and heard one of the older orphans telling Tha – in a very displeased tone of voice – that she had a 'teltone' call from 'a mar ika'. Tom didn't know what a 'teltone' was and he'd certainly never heard of a 'mar ika' before, but they had to be bad things, otherwise the person saying it wouldn't have sounded so upset. The odd colour on her face when she had stepped into the nursery to speak to Mary and Lucy was proof of that (not that Tom was supposed to know that: they had thought he was asleep at the time). Tom wasn't entirely sure what a 'stuff me-ing' was, either. Nevertheless, Tom had gone to sleep content in the knowledge that Lucy and Mary and Tha would stop being strange adults again soon – and that, until then, he had Mokey for company. He woke hours later: frightened and alone.

* * *

It had taken a few minutes for Tom to get out of his cot and to the door (especially when Mokey got stuck, but Tom figured he was either afraid of the lady in the infirmary, the infirmary or the dark).

Cautiously, he went down the stairs step by step, on his bottom, feeling ahead with his feet and holding tightly to Mokey with one hand and tightly to the bottom of the banister with the other. When he reached the level where he thought the 'stuff room' usually was, he climbed off the stairs and stood up.

There was light shining out from underneath every door in the corridor – as well as from one side of each, for every door was open; just a crack. Tom hadn't a clue which to open. But, with the rest of the corridor being pitch black – the light of the doors shone but did not illuminate – Tom quickly decided that he'd rather any door than the corridor. After all, light meant someone was there. Even at the front door, therefore, from behind which the same light was shining and through those same cracks the cold wind was blowing. Pulling Mokey closer, for warmth, Tom toddled over to the first door on the left and pushed it open.

Bright lights streamed down on him from inside the… actually, Tom wasn't sure what the room was. It was huge: people were flying on ropes from the ceiling and there was a crowd of people sitting on the circular benches. Looking around, Tom spotted Tha on one of the benches – with many other familiar faces near her – talking to a man Tom didn't know. Someone near the ceiling flung themselves from one rope to another in mid-air, electing a loud cheer from the audience. Tom spotted a discarded newspaper (the words 'BLACK FRIDAY', were barely visible on the page and it was clear the paper was several months old) which really did not tell him anything useful, since he could not read the second word.

"I did some further research on that blood work you sent me," the strange man said. "You were absolutely right. There was an unknown element in the boy's blood, even from the sample you took the night he was born."

Tha leaned forward, clearly interested. "And?"

The man shrugged slightly. "My best guess would be that it was some sort of new drug the mother was taking while she was pregnant and that it got into the child's bloodstream, except…"

Tha nodded, clearly understanding exactly what was going through the man's head. "That the sample from the mother on the night she died did not show any of our mystery element."

The man nodded, but the room was beginning to seem warped and the sounds, images and smells – something had smelled very good and was making Tom hungry – were beginning to fade; as if something else was trying to take their place beyond the doorframe. Tom could only hear parts of the conversation, as well as parts of something else – still too warped to be clear. "…could have been…father's blood…but the quantity!" the man's voice was fading in and out, almost impossible to follow.

"And after he…that fever?" Tha asked, eagerly, her voice just as hard to follow.

"…element…" the man was saying, "…not in the newer samples…be the medicine…"

Bright sunlight streamed down on Tom, who blinked at the sudden change of what was beyond the doorframe. It was an orphanage bedroom, something Tom found far more sensible than what had previously been there. A red-haired man was talking – arguing – with one of the older orphans.

"I'm not mad!" the orphan yelled, which Tom thought was odd; because he clearly was angry and angry _was_ mad. But whatever the man had said in reply was lost as the room and sounds began to fade away, replaced again with something new.

Tom couldn't see into the room anymore, it wasn't dark: it was just nothing. The sounds and smells – dirty nappies, definitely, something like burned food and a coppery smell Tom couldn't place – seemed to create an impression of place and distance beyond the doorframe, but there was literally nothing to see.

A voice was speaking and Tom imagined that it was the sort of voice that sounded like an old, well loved book – he wasn't certain what that meant, but when Lucy said it she had thought it was a good thing. The voice sounded sad, but Tom couldn't make out the words.

The second voice sounded strange, like it didn't know how to talk right. "You can't save him, Al, so stop vhatever it is you are thinking. It vill not vork."

But it was all fading out again, being replaced by something else and Tom only caught the louder portions of the strange voice's response to something he'd missed. "Vhatever the…edicine did! Eizer it nullivied…or AMPLIVIED IT! Al…isten to me…"

The red-haired man was back again, Tom realized, as the change finished. But he looked older, his hair wasn't red and there was a blond man standing next to him, in a very strange room (Tom thought it might have been an 'off-ice', since Mrs. Samantha certainly had a lot of odd things in hers).

The blond had asked something, waving a crystal vial around, and the no-longer-red-haired-man inclined his head. For a moment, the soft thud of a glass bottle being placed a little too firmly onto the table was the only sound in the room.

Tom spun around at the sudden sound of the wind slamming the front door open. A plump figure stood in the doorway, surrounded by the odd light. By the time the sounds from beyond the doorway made the toddler turn back, the no-longer-red-haired-man was alone and speaking softly to himself – or, perhaps, the funny people-pictures on the walls. But Tom couldn't make out half of what was said. What he did hear seemed very scary to his little ears, though.

"…sweet boy…some promises…etter broken…if he knew…"

The plump figure began to make its way toward Tom.

"…necessary fiction…soulless monster…can't be told…break his heart…kill…never forgive himself…want him to be happy…for once not thinking…the greater good…enemy can't…human…so alike…never forgive himself…a liar then…I care…that much…so I know…"

Warm, gentle hands suddenly lifted Tom away from the doorway as the scene faded completely out. Tom craned his neck, just able to catch sight of a crowded street and what looked like a very large picture of a badger being waved about (Tom knew about Badgers, he'd learned about them in the book: B was for Badger, Bear and Broccoli). Mokey was dangling down the plump woman's back, one of his hands held by Tom's own.

"Oh dear," the plump figure said, sounding faintly amused (Tom now saw it was a pretty looking woman with red hair and friendly blue eyes). "You're not supposed to be here."

Tom wasn't certain what to make of this. On the one hand she was taking him away from the scary pictures and seemed very nice, but on the other he didn't think 'you're not supposed to be here' could be anything good and he _really_ wanted to know more about the things behind that door. Unbothered by Tom's indecision, the kindly woman shifted him onto her hip and began walking toward the stairs, talking to herself. Tom listened with only half an ear; too busy trying to see more off the doors. Her voice was odd, like it wasn't used to speaking English – Tom idly wondered if that made her like the Hissy he'd met, but he couldn't recall when he'd met Hissy.

"Just like Sal, always getting into whatever you're not supposed to be in! The amount of trouble that man wound up in when he was a boy…" the woman shook her head. "…still can't believe his parents. Most old families would have been thrilled to have a child with his gifts but no, they have to leave him with those, those _barbarians_ to be raised as one of them! If Ric hadn't found him…"

Tom didn't particularly _care _about whatever it was that was making the nice lady sad and angry at the same time. He wanted to see what was behind the other doors that she was taking him away from. So he threw Mokey at one of the ajar doors (actually the one directly opposite of the one he had already opened).

The door was immediately flung open, but – to Tom's horror – Mokey fell passed the doorframe and disappeared; as if the room had swallowed him up. Tom cried out and started squirming. The woman stopped moving away from the door as she tried to contain the squirming boy, but the boy managed to escape her grasp and – falling to the floor with a thud – ran toward the door. The woman ran after him. As a result, neither noticed the first scene played behind the second door – Tha and the strange man, again – nor the second.

Catching the toddler moments before he could throw himself through the doorframe and onto the grassy hill in search of his toy, the woman pulled him back – attempting to soothe him. But she was not quite fast enough to prevent Tom pushing his hands past the doorframe. Inside the slightly swirling image (there was Tha again, but with a gentleman who look very much like Tom, Tom himself – older – behind them) his hands twisted and grew, aging and rotting. A stark contrast to the cheerful family dinner that was now being portrayed (Tom, older again, and Tha and the gentleman and two old people – one of whom was cutting the roast and it looked like he was about to take Tommy's hand off at the same time and)…

Tommy's agonized screech pierced the pitch-black corridor as he pulled his hands out. He stared at them. They looked normal, but they hurt. _And Mokey's in there! _Tom whimpered.

The nice lady pulled him into her arms again, kissing his little hands, before hurrying up the stairs; muttering angrily to herself the whole way. Tom cringed: the lady was really scary when she was angry.

"Cannot believe!" She muttered, "Of all the stupid!" It was almost as if she was too angry to complete a sentence. "If Sal! But no, _Sal_ probably would have done the same!" The nice-but-sad-and-angry lady shook her head. "When he left! Honestly! Argues with Ric at dinner and disappears for weeks on end! Comes back nearly a month later! And what does the fool say?"

Tom looked around; noting, despite the pain, that they were now in the corridor where the nursery should be.

"Does he say 'sorry dear, did you miss me'? No. _No_, all the smoking, dirty _fool_ bothers to say is 'never tickle a sleeping dragon'! And I thought _Ric_ was the buffoon!"

Tom whimpered again as she lay him in his cot. When she walked away, Tom shut his eyes tightly, hoping the dark would go away if he couldn't see it.

* * *

"Shhh! Go sleep!" Donald called sleepily from his cot.

Tom looked around in the dark. There was no Tha, no doors and no nice-sad-lady (he remembered there had been one, and that her hair was pretty, but couldn't recall anything else about what had happened, except that it had been scary). But Mokey was there, giving him a hug. Tom pulled Mokey closer and decided to go find Mary.

It took a few minutes for Tom to get out of his cot and to the door (especially when Mokey got stuck, but Tom figured he was either afraid of the lady in the infirmary, the infirmary or the dark).

Cautiously, he went down the stairs step by step, on his bottom, feeling ahead with his feet and holding tightly to Mokey with one hand and tightly to the bottom of the banister with the other. When he reached the level where he thought the 'stuff room' usually was, he climbed off the stairs and stood up. Toddling down the corridor he quickly identified what he was certain was the 'stuff room', since it had light coming out from under the door while the others didn't. If nothing else, Tom knew he would rather be in the light than in the dark.

The toddler struggled with the door handle, but managed to open the door a crack after several attempts (finding it in the dark was hard, but they were usually in the same place on doors) and peered inside.

Lucy was shaking her head. "Martha, honestly, are you going to insist your friend in New York knows better than the London Times what is happening and why the Times changed its outlook?"

Tom could not actually see Martha, but he recognised her voice as more than mildly peeved. "I can tell you exactly why the journalists have suddenly changed their minds. The answer is in the very question. They are _journalists._ They discovered a brilliant story – nothing sells as well as disaster, after all – and the government did not have the chance to stop them from publishing it."

Lucy laughed, airily. "But the government has no reason to–"

"_Of course_ they do," Martha snapped. "The last thing they want is a mass panic on their hands. The more people panic; the more people sell their stocks: the worse the problem gets."

Tom pushed the door open and slipped into the room.

Mary gasped when she noticed him. "Oh, Tommy!"

Tom shifted uncomfortably as ever head in the room turned to stare at him.

Mary looked about ready to rush over and pick him up. "Did you wet the bed again?" she asked, catching sight of his uncomfortable expression.

Tom flushed, shaking his head empathically. "NO," he said, a little too loud. "No wet."

Martha looked at him shrewdly, then at Mary's face. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Tom muttered a small "Yes," while staring at the floor. He therefore completely missed the shocked look on Eleanor's face, while Eleanor (who was staring at Martha) missed the shocked look on Mary' face.

Eleanor, for her part, considered Martha's immediate assumption that Tom would have had a nightmare _…but it hadn't been an assumption, had it? She had been looking at Mary, not Tom, when she had asked. She'd _known_ what the answer she was going to get was _before_ she asked the question. So why bother to ask?_ The answer came to her all too quickly. _To gauge Mary's reaction._ But that also seemed senseless – except _…except it was _Mary_ who told her about Tom's nightmare in January. _Mary _was the only other person who knew about it. The entry in the blue book, which she had brushed off as Martha overanalysing, had clearly stated that Mary had made mention of Tom having a nightmare of January 24__th__ – and today was _October_ 24__th__. It had never been childish babbling about a black octo bear – there was no such thing as an octobear …but there _was_ an October, and the month had certainly begun to look grim._

Feeling someone's gaze on her, Eleanor looked up and met Martha's eyes. It was impossible to tell what the doctor was thinking. _Oh lord, does she know?_

Mary gently lifted Tom into her arms and returned to her chair, looking thoughtful. That was when Eleanor knew for certain that all three of the women who knew about Tom's previous nightmare had made the connection. The only remaining question was _which _of them knew that the others' knew.

* * *

The arguing went on for hours. Tom, carefully curled up at Mary's side, could not sleep because of it. Instead he watched in fascination as the adults argued over what should be done. From what little Tom could make out, although he didn't really understand it; the thing which had upset the staff earlier in the week had been brought up again. Tha had asked a friend in a mer ika (which, Tom was surprised to learn, was a place, not a thing) to keep her updated on what was happening. This had resulted in her receiving the teltone call in the evening after 'their' tock-markets (by this point Tom really could not follow anything that was being said) had closed, from the friend, who had warned Tha that the situation with the a mer ikan tock-markets was getting worse. Tha had relayed this information to the staff (staff, not stuff, Tom had realized at some point during the conversation) and called the emer-gency staff me-ing. Tha had also told them that her a mer ikan friend (a bussy-ness journal-est and tock-ana-list, whatever that was) had told her the a mer ikan papers (Tom decided at this point that a mer ika must be very strange, to have all that fuss over papers) were calling it Black Thursday. This, in turn, meant that it would hit Britain the next day, when their tock-markets reopened. Tha said this also meant they would have a Black Friday, instead of a Black Thursday, due to the time difference (which confused Tom terribly, for how could it be a different time somewhere else?).

Lucy laughed suddenly. When the others turned to look at her she smiled. "But this is silliness!" she said. "It isn't going to affect us, even if the stock market has problems!"

Tom liked Lucy's laughter: he thought it sounded like the small wind chime Simon had hanging by the kitchen window.

"Have you ever played with dominos?" Eleanor asked sharply.

Lucy nodded, surprised by the apparent non sequiter.

"When one falls they all fall," Eleanor said. "The stock market crash in America will affect every country connected to it – like Germany, which has been relying on the Americans' help to rebuild their economy."

"Hungary also suffered economic disaster because of the Great War," Martha cut in, making her opinion of how 'great' she thought that war had been painfully obvious.

Eleanor nodded and continued. "Wall Street is one of the most important places, for the stock exchange, in the world. When the news that Wall Street had crashed got out it began worldwide panic among the investors. And when every is trying to sell their stocks and no one is willing to buy, businesses go bankrupt."

Lucy rolled her eyes. "I understand that, Eleanor. I just don't see why it should affect us. We aren't businesses or stockbrokers, after all."

"No jobs," Harold Cole said quietly.

The approaching argument halted, as most of the staff turned to stare at the (usually silent) man.

"No jobs," he repeated, in explanation. "England already has an unemployment problem," here he shrugged, "and businesses all over the world are about to go bankrupt. There will be thousands of people suddenly jobless in London alone. And with the stock market crash affecting the economy in other ways, everyone – except the rich, of course – is going to have money problems. People won't be able to eat… or feed their children."

Lucy shook her head. "But that's silly!" she repeated. "If anything of that sort were about to happen Johnny would have–"

Jonathan cut her off suddenly, his tone frigid. "_John Blackwood_ is a _fool,_" he spat.

Lucy sniffed indignantly, but otherwise remained silent.

Samantha coughed slightly. "So what exactly ought we to do about this?" she asked, fumbling for a cigar.

Eleanor's answer was precise and immediate. "Sell off all excess items tomorrow morning, before people start to realise that this will affect them. Then buy whatever essential items we need, before the prices go up and the worth of currency drops."

Martha shook her head. "Better to save the money we get: somewhere it can not be stolen or burned. We may yet have need of a reserve such as that when things get worse."

The two women – the only ones standing – shared a tense glance: neither had expected that particular disagreement, as they had so far been fighting their opposition side by side.

Finally, Martha turned her head back to the others and spoke slowly. "Regardless of which path is deemed the more appropriate, we must act now. Tomorrow morning we will not have time to deal with the children and find all the possible non-essentials for sale, let alone sell them, before the news and the panic strike again. We have _got_ to go through everything now."

"What, tonight?" Simon asked, startled.

"As it is currently night and 'currently' is the generally accepted definition of 'now': _yes_," Martha replied coldly, her every word pronouncing him an idiot.

Samantha removed her cigar from her mouth, thoughtfully. She studied the earnest expression on her daughter-in-law's face and then nodded. "They are correct. Everyone go through your designated night time area for things that we definitely shan't need. Meet back here with them in two hours."

The staff did not move, seemingly uncertain whether they should follow through with the matron's command.

"NOW!" barked Eleanor; and that was enough to get them moving.

* * *

Mary was digging through the small box full of items that belonged to her and qualified as valuable. The box was actually an antique jewellery box, which she would be very sad to part with; but she also knew that she did not exactly need her great-grandmother's jewellery box. It was just an extravagance.

Mary sighed, her shoulders sagging. She honestly couldn't stand the thought of selling her jewellery box. It had stayed in her family over three generations of almost poverty, to give it up now seemed…incomprehensible. Mary pulled out a small ring box – Jonathan's, Tom's now – and placed it on the bedside cabinet. It wouldn't do to mix it up with the items that were to be sold.

There was a soft knock on the door; then Eleanor popped her head in.

Mary blinked, startled. "Eleanor, I wasn't expecting," she cut herself off abruptly. "Is something wrong?"

Eleanor shook her head. "Just a thought, is all. That ring Jonathan gave you, for Tom Riddle. The boy doesn't know it exists and it's not really fair to give it to him and say it's from his mother, is it? It's not like he needs it, either. Perhaps it would be best if it were sold now; the money would go towards his health and that of the other orphans, after all." During this speech, she had walked in.

Mary stood, unhappy. "No, Eleanor, it's not right."

Eleanor frowned. "We are going to need the money, Mary. Give it to me, if Jonathan is upset by it I shall tell him that it was my decision to sell it. It is exactly the sort of extravagance it was just agreed we would sell."

Mary shook her head, placing herself between Eleanor and the bedside cabinet. "No, Eleanor. I shall not sell it. What if he needs a ring to give his fiancée when he's older?"

Eleanor's eyes narrowed. "What if he needs food to eat _now_?" she countered.

Mary's face twisted with indecision, but just as Eleanor's hand moved to pick up the ring box, a hand closed around her wrist.

"Whether or not this is sold is the decision of Mary, Lucy and Jonathan. Not you," Martha said coldly.

Eleanor reeled as if she had been slapped. "You yourself advocated the sale of excesses! For the sake of the orphanage!"

Martha's expression didn't change. "When you both donate from your own pocket and wages, as well as working here, then you can argue that point. But, as you neither can claim to do that, nor claim the final decision over orphanage happenings – _as you are not the matron_ – you can not. Perhaps a child will die of hunger in these walls for the sake of that ring, perhaps not. But it is not your call to make; nor your fault, should that come to pass." With that she released the wrist she held and walked silently to the door, while Eleanor rubbed her reddened wrist. Turning back in the doorway, momentarily, the doctor added: "Goodnight, Eleanor, Mary …make sure to lock your door tonight."

* * *

After the second staff meeting of the night had ended, Eleanor went in search of the doctor. After ten minutes of searching (and nearly tripping over the little Riddle boy on one occasion, only to be knocked over by Lucy; who was trying to catch the self-proclaimed 'little tare-or' and send him back to bed) she finally located her. She was outside, leaning on the wall by the front door – and apparently completely unbothered by the cold.

"No muff?" Eleanor asked, surprised, as she stepped out to join the doctor.

Martha shook her head. "I was impressed," she said, startling Eleanor with the somewhat abrupt subject change. "Most people would not have thought of that ring."

Eleanor blinked. "But, but you…" she trailed off, uncertain of how to complete her query.

"It was not your place to make the decision. But that you considered the usefulness of the item was…impressive, although your reasoning was somewhat faulty." The doctor twisted around slightly, looking more at the sky than her companion. "We are logical people, you and I, so when our less logical companions express a certain…sentimentality, we fail to recall that their need for happiness is often more important to them than more," her lips twisted slightly, "practical needs. It is a fault we share."

"Selling a ring the boy does not know exists will not make him any _less_ happy," Eleanor replied.

"It is not his happiness of which I am thinking."

There was a pause, thoughtful rather than tense, as each woman considered what had been said.

"He is a bit of a… odd boy, don't you think?" Eleanor finally asked.

Martha's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Odd is not necessarily a bad thing," she stated quietly.

"I never said it was."

Somewhere a clock tolled, announcing the arrival of midnight.

"If any matron will be sufficient, it will be you that aids this place in weathering the coming storm," Martha said.

Eleanor shook her head. "There is no reason to believe I will be a matron."

"Of course there is," Martha said, somewhat condescendingly. "You came back. You had the chance to leave this place, but you came back." As if struck by a sudden thought, Martha's side of the conversation changed tracks again. "The staff must also give up their expensive habits."

Eleanor looked at her shrewdly. "Which are you thinking of?"

"Samantha," the doctor replied shortly. "Her cigars. Sell them tomorrow."

"What happened to 'that is not your decision to make'?" Eleanor asked, although it came out more like an accusation than a question.

"There is a difference. Cigars can not make her happy." That said; the doctor re-entered the building, without as much as a 'goodnight'.

Eleanor frowned after her. "You're _worried_, doctor," she murmured to herself. "What do you know that I do not?"

* * *

**A/N: **I got this chapter up here faster than I expected, but that's mainly because I need to be free of pressure to write fanfic while I try to do two journalism assignments, three short essays, a speech and two long essays in a single month. Then I'll need a chance to catch up on sleeping. By the way, part of this chapter will – indubitably – be confusing. I have an explanation up at my live and insane journals for the story, which can be found by searching either site for the user name tmr_chronicles.

**To Beefsister:** You're not dumb, hon, I didn't mean for you to feel that way. I'm just obsessed. So please don't apologise. As for JK's writing? I think we have to remember that she wrote an adventure story, not a character piece. It was plot centric, rather than character centric, and also moved by events rather than people. So, for her particular genre, she is quite a good writer. And the plot holes? Sometimes I get the feeling that the entire fantasy genre is based on plot holes. 'It's magic' seems to be the standard explanation in most fantasy canons. I'm afraid I also have to admit that I've never read about Hannibal Lecter, but he sounds fascinating.


	15. Bertram Mills: December 21st, 1929

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but may offend modern readers, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. I also do not own Bertram Mills Circus and, since Bertram is long dead, I do not know who owns it (if it still exists). The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Bertram Mills**

Tom Riddle was standing on one of his counters.

Simon blinked, repeatedly, as he watched the toddler rifle through his cupboards. The speed with which the boy opened and discarded the upper cupboards, one by one, as he shuffled sideways along the countertop was proof that he knew what he was looking for. What, precisely, a boy who was turning three in six days time could want within his upper kitchen cupboards, however, Simon could not fathom. So he watched, rather baffled, as the boy moved along on the balls of his feet – he was still too short to stand flat and see into the cupboards.

"Er, Tom," Simon said. Part of him was still quite certain that it was far too early in the morning for a toddler to be standing on his kitchen counter.

The boy turned slightly, looking over his shoulder, apparently neither concerned nor surprised by being caught. He smiled.

Simon smiled back, albeit rather bemusedly. "What exactly are you after?"

Tom smiled toothily at him; then turned back to rifle though the cupboard for a moment – seconds later he pulled himself out, triumphantly holding out a jar of boysenberry preserve. "This," Tom said, his tone decisively proud. "I'm after this!"

"Ah… yes, of course…I can see that. Why?"

Tom, who had been busying himself with sitting on the counter and trying to get down with the jar in his hands, didn't bother to look at him as he replied – although that may have had more to do with the fact that he only had one free hand and had to watch what he was doing.

"I'm hungry," he said, as if this should have been painfully obvious to the adult.

Moments later, he steadied himself on the chair, which was sideways against the counter, and sat down. It was at that moment, for the first time, Simon actually realized that Tom had put the chair in place so that he could climb onto the counter without great difficulty.

By the time Simon had managed to comprehend all of this, for he was still quite nearly half-asleep, Tom had managed to get down from the chair and proceeded to look between the chair and another counter with a decidedly thoughtful expression. It was obvious that he was not considering what to do next, but rather _how_ to do it.

Tom looked down at the jar of boysenberry preserve he held, with his lips pursed and a tiny frown upon his brow, which – Simon could not help but note – made him look quite adorable. A fact which, in itself, was rather unsurprising to Simon as he, in his time on the orphanage staff, had quickly learned that the children with the most adorable smiles were often the biggest troublemakers. It was as if they believed their adorability (for most of them did indeed know they were adorable – it was rather hard to miss with a large number of ever-present adults willing to inform them of the fact) granted them a sort of immunity from punishment. It didn't, but that wasn't enough to stop them trying it.

Tom held the jar carefully in one hand, then reached out and began to pull the chair across the black and white tiled floor with the other. It made a terrible screeching sound as it was dragged along. Simon winced. Tom's eyes widened in surprise and he let go of the chair, the front legs of which returned to the floor with a thump.

With his now free right hand brought to his lips in the 'shhh' gesture which Mary was so fond of, the toddler turned to the chair and, sure enough, scolded it. "Shhhh," Tom said.

Simon could not quite stop the grin which was slowly taking over his face. Nevertheless, it disappeared on its own accord when Tom picked up the chair again and dragged it across the kitchen floor without a sound.

When Tom put the chair down in front of the other counter (where the breadbox was) and climbed onto it, Simon finally came to his senses and moved to stop the boy from doing …whatever it was that he was doing.

Apparently, it was sandwiches.

Simon stared down at the counter as the little boy next to him proudly put the boysenberry preserve next to the plate, serviette and bread he had already set out.

Tom then stopped moving, looking between the closed jar of preserve and the pre-sliced bread in bewilderment. The boy then looked up at the cook with the plaintive look of the toddler, which clearly was meant to say 'help me: I'm adorable'.

Simon sighed. "Tom, couldn't you have waited until breakfast?"

"No," Tom replied, annoyed, as he turned the jar in his little hands; trying to figure out how to open it. "I'm hungry."

It then occurred to Simon that Tom, being too young to be allowed in the kitchen, had probably never seen preserve in a jar before. Simon could only be thankful that Mr. Rohwedder had invented his bread slicing machine the year before, as without the pre-sliced bread Tom would indubitably have either hurt himself or made a terrible mess trying to make slices. As it was, the boy had not done any damage, being too busy trying to figure out how the jar was supposed to open to do anything else.

Simon smiled encouragingly at the boy. "What about some Rice Krispies? Would you like some?" The Kellogg's Rice Krispies were one of the newer foods, like the Boysenberry, on the market and were currently considered an experiment in Simon's kitchen.

"No," Tom said, shaking his head slightly in disgust and turning back to the mystery of opening the preserve jar. Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, Tom leaned in and looked closely at the lid. Squinting slightly with thought, Tom placed the jar firmly on the countertop and turned the lid with his left hand.

Mentally, Simon cursed the Ball Brother's Company for making their Mason jars with screw-top lids that were easy to open. Moments later, Tom stuck a finger into the open jar and removed it – covered in preserve – only to shove it into his mouth.

When the boy moved to put his finger back in the jar, Simon grabbed his little wrist. "No," he said, as firmly as he could when faced with such an adorably confused little face. "We do not stick our hands in the food. It is unhygienic."

"Oh," said Tom, as if he had understood more than just the first part. Then he added, in a very adult tone which he could _only_ have learned from Dr. Elder, "Very well, then."

Then, before Simon could stop him, the boy turned the open jar upside down and began trying to shake the preserve out. Moments later the boy jerked backwards, shocked, as boysenberry preserve hit the bread and splattered back at Tom with the force of the impact. Shakily, Tom turned the jar upright again and turned to look at Simon.

Any resolve the orphanage cook had made to be angry with the boy left him upon seeing the wide eyed, boysenberry preserve speckled face staring up at him in shock.

"That," Tom said, still shocked. "That not meant to happen."

Simon smiled, rolled his eyes, pulled out his handkerchief and began to clean the boy's face. Tom, for his part, stood extremely still and closed his eyes, as if trying to will away the indignity of what was happening.

A soft coughing sound alerted them to a third presence in the room. Both Tom and Simon turned to look at the kitchen door, where Samantha Cole stood; smiling apologetically.

"I see you found a mouse," she said, amusedly, as she shuffled into the room and tried to stifle a yawn.

"Tea?" Simon asked.

Samantha smiled gratefully at him. "Tea sounds lovely, thank you, dear."

"I don't usually see you up quite this early," Simon added, as he put the kettle on.

"Oh, you know how it is. Some days you simply wake up and want to get on with the day," she said, laughing slightly, in a manner which only convinced Simon that there was another reason. Leaning on the countertop, she added; "And I can see that I am not the only one! Good morning, Tommy. How are you today?"

"Hungry!" the boy replied immediately. He appeared to be trying to work out how to spread the preserve over his bread without using his fingers (after all, that was what Simon had told him to do, wasn't it?).

Still half asleep herself, Samantha took one of the butter knives out of a cutlery drawer and helped Tom to hold it and spread the preserve across the bread. When Tom put the second slice on top of the preserve covered lower slice, she also helped him to cut it into two triangular sandwiches.

It was at that point that Simon placed her tea on the counter used as a table by those on cooking duty. Samantha smiled tiredly and walked over to it – leaving the toddler alone on the other side of the room – and sat down. She lifted the teacup and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the warm drink in the cup she had cradled in her hands (to warm them). Opening her eyes again, and looking significantly more awake, she fixed Simon with a sharp gaze. "I just taught a toddler to use a knife, didn't I?" she inquired, more stating than asking it.

Simon winced, smiling oddly and jerking his head slightly, in response.

"I thought so," she murmured, before taking a sip.

"Tom!" a new voice said, startled.

Dr. Elder was standing in the doorway; the only one of them, apart from Tom, already dressed properly for the day. Although it was clear Tom had dressed himself.

Tom smiled at her. "Sandwich," he said, offering up the food item in question.

The doctor took it, holding it as if it were a dangerous spider. "Boysenberry jam?" she muttered, clearly surprised by this. "Do you, at least, have a napkin?"

Tom waved it about in response.

Having swallowed her first, tentative, bite, she gave him an odd look. "Who are the other five for?"

"Me and Denny," Tom replied, unconcerned.

Samantha smiled at the boy. "How thoughtful! Making breakfast for his little friend, would you look at that?"

"It makes him whine less," Tom explained, apparently completely unaware that this was generally considered an inappropriate reason.

A bright chuckle, far too lively for the early hour, filled the room.

Sir John Blackwood stood in the recently vacated doorway, smiling jauntily at them. "I have excellent news for you all!" he exclaimed. "I was talking to my friend Bertram, you know Bertram do you not, Doctor?"

"Unfortunately," Martha muttered, although the man had not actually stopped speaking to hear her response.  
"And we have come upon the most delightful arrangement! You see: Bertie's show is in town for Christmas – it always is – and when he remembered that I was the patron of an orphanage he thought it would be most excellent for you all to see the show tonight! He always makes sure that orphans get to see the show for free, usually at the last rehearsal, but he's an old friend and he was happy to see us there. So dress warmly, for tonight you are going to see Bertram Mills Circus!"

Samantha managed a polite smile and a, truly grateful, verbalization of thanks. Martha just continued to gaze at him, uninterested, although she did stop eating her sandwich momentarily.

"What do you think, young man?" Sir John asked brightly, leaning down to look directly into Tom's face. "Are you excited to go and see the circus?"

Tom, who had been holding up a sandwich with his left hand and watching the cheerful man curiously, nodded agreeably. His sandwich (still held up roughly parallel with his head and on an arm that seemed to be performing a good imitation of a teapot) was beginning to tilt sideways, with his hand, away from him, from lack of attention. Martha cautiously righted it.

"Good lad!" the man cried brightly, ruffling the toddler's hair.

Tom glowered at him. "I bite," he informed the man sullenly.

Sir John just laughed.

* * *

It was the biggest building Tom had ever seen …the biggest that he could ever recall seeing, at least. The fact that it was lit brightly in the dark of the winter evening simply served to make it seem bigger. High above the tiny boy, the name _Olympia_ was lit where it stood, proud and tall, on the building's front face.

Tom wanted to pull his coat tighter around him for warmth, but both of his hands were tightly held by those of others – who showed no signs of letting go. On his right was Samuel, on his left Dennis: both babbling to anyone who would listen – Samuel about the circus and Dennis… frankly, even Tom wasn't entirely certain what it was that Dennis was trying to say. At two years and three months, he was not particularly articulate. On Dennis' other side, one of the oldest orphans tried to explain to the littlest boy what it was, exactly, that he was seeing.

Tom looked around in awe as they were led through the immense building, like all of the orphans feeling as if he needed two extra pairs of eyes to see everything. As his head swivelled at high speed, he momentarily caught sight of Martha (not just 'Tha', apparently) in a full length evening dress, speaking with a number of richly dressed men by the walls. They were her colleagues in the medical profession, the richer part of the medical profession, a fact Tom was unaware of. What Tom was aware of, however, was that the green of the dress was pretty with Martha's eyes. He was also aware that Lucy was the only other adult he knew who hadn't simply put on their Sunday best for the evening out. Tom didn't like her short dress as much, though. It always made her giggle and lean on the strange, cheerful man – who visited the orphanage regularly – too much. Martha's clothing never made her act strange.

Lucy giggled at something Sir John said and leaned closer. Behind her one of the thirteen year old boys pulled a face, only to be promptly and rather idly smacked on the head by Jonathan Stone, who was glaring at the young woman hanging off the patron.

Samuel tugged on Tom's hand. "Come on!" he cried, already irritated that he had not managed to get Arnold's attention. But then, the boy had been irritable ever since he realised that Arnold had begun to play more with the boys of his age group in the rooms for six to ten year olds.

When they finally entered the main hall, however, every orphan fell silent. The silence only lasted until they passed the side show of freaks, whence on they giggled their way to their seats – all except Lucy, who was frowning in disgust, and Martha, who was caught up in a debate with one of her friends in the medical world and had not actually been paying attention.

Tom's eyes were wide and his mouth moving at high speed as he tried not only to take it all in, but also to express his interest in it. Amid his fast hand waving and half-coherent jabbering, Tom noticed that Martha and her friend were in the seats a row behind him, heads still together as they spoke in low tones. Soon enough, though, the opening parade began and Tom stopped no longer noticed anything other than the brightly lit spectacles taking place before him.

* * *

To Tom it all passed in a blur of laughter and awe, of sore hands from clapping and sore ears from the cheering. If asked he could not have stated with any certainty whether it was the horses and trick riders or clowns, loosing their shoes and mimicking other acts, or the midgets or the high-flying acrobats, who spun and flipped through the air with little more than a rope (sometimes held in their mouths) to hold them up, or the seals, and chimps and lions and tigers, who had performed first. Nor would he be able to recall, if he were asked, that he had reached out with one little hand during the high wire acts and the performances with the trapeze; as if he were trying to touch the far away performers. He would recall the faint dream of flying, himself, but not from where in the show the idea came. Amazed beyond comprehensibility – having seen so many things he had never seen before – one of the few certainties he'd had, when they began to file out of the theatre again, was that one day he wanted to learn to fly, like the bright people who had flown that day. So enthralled was he by the amazing things he had seen – as all the orphans were – that he did not notice that they had left the building and were waiting until the cabs Sir John had arranged to pick them up (the man, if nothing else, was thoughtful in his extravagance) until Arnold Fitzgerald walked over to him (narrowly missing an icy part of the pavement on which he might have slipped) and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Arnie!" Tom said, delighted. "Did you see–"

But whatever Tom was going to ask (no doubt about the circus acts) was cut off when Arnold spoke, hurried and hushed, over him. "Tommy? I need you to do me a favour."

Tom nodded agreeably; he'd always liked Arnold.

"I'm going to go over there," Arnold said, pointing back toward the theatre on their left and toward the more crowded area of the street. "I've seen my mother. I knew she would come back for me, I always knew."

Tom nodded again, not particularly certain how this involved him but fairly certain that this was a good thing; since mummies and daddies, according to the older orphans, were something every orphan should be happy to have.

"I'll come back. You'll like her," Arnold added, seeing Tom's cautious expression. "Tell Mrs. Samantha and Lucy and Mary not to wait?"

Tom nodded, he could do that.

Arnold flashed him a rare smile, for the older of the two boys rarely ever smiled, and disappeared into the crowd, failing to see Tom's parting wave.

It would not be until the cabs arrived that the adults would realise they had lost one of their number in the crowd.

* * *

Naturally, finding they had counted one short, the staff had become alarmed. Frantic questions had been asked – of each other and nearby strangers, but no one had recalled seeing Arnold after they left the theatre. Yet Tom had, but his little voice – in the loud and crowded street – had been quite accidentally overlooked.

Struggling with his bedclothes, Tom tried once again to get Mary's, and Lucy's, attention and tell them what Arnold had said. But in the dim nursery, the two women were paying more attention to their fears than their wards.

"I still can't believe…" Mary shook her head, cutting herself off. "How could we not notice? We are supposed to be taking care of lost children – not loosing them again!"

Lucy nodded miserably, as she put Donald to bed. "How could no one see him? That's my question. A street full of people and not one said they saw him leave."

"I saw him!" Tom called, trying to get their attention.

Mary looked quite near to tears as she replied to Lucy, noting that Tom had spoken but not actually registering what had been said.

"I SAW HIM!" Tom finally screamed, quite tired of being ignored.

Every head in the room turned in his direction, shocked, and Samuel, who had been quite close to tears because his best friend was missing, began to tremble.

"Tommy?" Lucy asked, stunned. "Why did you not tell us earlier?"

"I TRIED!" Tom screamed back at her, still quite upset.

Without warning he was swept into Lucy's shaking arms and held tightly.

Mary took a more, practical approach. "Tommy, did you see where he went? Do you know why he left?"

Tom, once Lucy relaxed her grip enough for him to breath, replied: "He goes to his mummy. He says so. He sees her."

Mary sank to the floor, clutching her crucifix and mumbling what was either a prayer or an expression of gratitude.

Lucy nodded, suddenly, as if to herself. "What did Arnie's mummy look like, Tommy?"

Tom shrugged as best he could in her tight hold. "I no see her. He says tell you not wait. He bring her to show."

Mary stood suddenly. "Did you see which way he went?" she asked sharply, almost desperately.

Tom stared at her, surprised by the sudden sharp tone.

"Tom," she shrieked; her voice no longer steady and her hands reaching out almost as if to shake Tom's shoulders. "_Did you see which way he went?_ DID YOU _SEE WHICH WAY _HE _WENT_?"

Tom's brow furrowed and he stared at his little hands, trying desperately to explain, but with no way to do so.

Two floors below them, the office telephone began to ring. Mary and Lucy stared into each others' eyes, both aware that the person on the other end would be one of Harold, Henry, Sir John, Jonathan and Martha – all of whom had remained behind to search for the boy – to tell them how the search was progressing.

"Go," Mary said.

Lucy turned and ran down the corridor, then took the stairs two at a time, with Tom clinging to her in surprise.

When she skidded into the Matron's Office (which was close to the front door) Samantha was on the telephone, quite ashen faced, speaking to someone on the other end. Neither words nor telling looks were needed to convey the painfully obvious truth: they had not found him, in their three hours of searching they had not found him.

Samantha looked up at the younger woman, who literally shook with anticipation as she gestured wildly with one hand that the telephone should be passed to her. Somewhat baffled, Samantha moved to allow her the use of the device. Lucy practically dropped Tom onto the office desk as she reached for the telephone.

"What is it?" Henry asked, on the other end of the line.

"Tom saw him."

"Pardon?"

"Tom Riddle, almost three years old. Saw Arnold. Said he'd said he saw his mother and was going to go to her. That he intended to come back. Tom thinks he knows which direction, but can't explain. Directions are hard when you're three," Lucy said in such a hurry that she managed to do it without taking a pause to breath."

"Does he know his shoes?" Henry asked.

"Shoes?"

"Left shoe, right shoe," Henry explained.

"Hold on." Lucy handed the telephone back to Samantha quite roughly and turned to Tom. "Tommy," she said, holding his shoulders so he looked directly at her. "Tommy, the theatre was on the side of your left shoe, yes? Did Arnie go to the side of your left shoe," here she touched his left shoe, "or," here she touched his right shoe, "your right shoe?"

Tom's brow furrowed in thought, almost as if he was trying to re-imagine the pavement where he'd stood. "Left?" he said finally, swinging his left leg.

"Left!" Lucy repeated, to Samantha. "He went left!"

Samantha then repeated this for Henry to hear. Once she hung up on the telephone, she gave Tom a hug.

Nevertheless, when morning came Arnold was still missing and, as tired orphanage workers collapsed into their beds after a night spent scouring the streets for a little lost boy, telephone and other sources of news remained stubbornly silent.

* * *

**A/N: **Don't let this being here fool you: I'm still too busy with university to breathe.

**To Sean Mulligan: **I know I've seen other fics that are sympathetic to the staff, only they don't seem to sympathise with Tom if they do. I am glad that you find it interesting, and hope you continue to find it so.

**To The Window:** I guess that means I can breathe a sigh of relief when it comes to my concern for how accurate I've been so far. I also can not begin to describe how happy I was to hear what you thought of my portrayal of the staff. It's what I've been aiming at for all of the characters; a good side and a bad side. So thank you …and I'm looking forward to writing more (when university stops trying to kill me – death by essays, I'm sure of it).


	16. Calling On Janus: January 13th, 1930

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** Firstly, I'm still in the middle of the end-of-semester-assignment-rush, so no guarantees on when I get the next chapter written and up. I can't – and won't – apologize for the long pause this story has had or that I left you with what I have been told was a cliff-hanger, since I have to put my studies first. Finally, I have rated this story M and this may have, so far, left some of you wondering why I put it so high. I can't say for certain if this is the chapter that will start earning that M rating, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Calling On Janus**

The rumours had been circulating for hours. Arnold had been sighted. Arnold had been found. Arnold was with his parents. Arnold was adopted in secret. Arnold was coming back. Arnold was going to heaven. Arnold was in a coma. Arnold was in Australia. Arnold was kidnapped. Arnold was a kidnapper. Arnold was in the hospital. Arnold was in the mortuary. Arnold was buried alive. Arnold was found floating in the Thames. Parts of Arnold were found floating in the Thames. Parts of Arnold were found floating in the Thames where his parents had buried him alive while fleeing to Australia.

Everyone, it seemed, knew what had happened to Arnold. Yet the only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that they all knew something else than what the people they were speaking with had heard. All that was known for certain was that some sort of message had come, presumably for the Matron, from the local police department and that there was no reason for such a thing to occur if it did not involve the, slightly more than three week old, missing person case of one Arnold Arthur Fitzgerald (aged six and a half).

Samuel Chase, however, had had quite enough. Arnold, although he had been moved to the big boys' rooms half a year earlier and started playing more with them, was his best friend. He, of all people, in his opinion, deserved to know where Arnie was. Even more so since Mary and Mr. Stone were trying to convince him that it was time he moved into the big boys' rooms – where Arnie was supposed to be, but _wasn't_.

Samuel was many things, but he was not stupid; nor was he unobservant. The adults had discussed something very quietly before they tried to move him into 'his' new room, but they hadn't even set up a new bed first. There was already an empty bed set up in the room. The room Arnie had stayed in until a few weeks before. They were trying to put him in what had been Arnie's bed – Johnny Smith had said so and Johnny was almost _nine_ – which meant they didn't think Arnie was coming back, because Arnie needed his bed. Sammy was quite certain he would rather be left in the nursery with all the annoying little babies, like Annie and Tommy and Donny and Denny and Clarice, and have Arnie back, than to be in the big boys' rooms and not have his very best friend with him …even though Arnie had been playing with Chester more than him recently.

Sammy hadn't cried: he was in the big boys' room now, even if he didn't like it, and big boys – he had been told – simply didn't cry. Crying was for babies. But that, unfortunately, left him extremely frustrated with the injustices the world had brought upon him. It left him wishing that someone had been more careful: that someone had seen Arnie go – apart, of course, from Tommy; who, in Samuel's opinion, was clearly very stupid. He had been the last to see Arnie – everyone in the orphanage had been so _proud_ of him for remembering which direction Arnie went, they hadn't even scolded him for letting Arnie go, and the staff (apart from the, clearly intelligent, doctor) had all made a fuss of him – so Tommy was clearly at fault for Arnie not being there… but nobody was angry with him. They were proud! Proud of the little baby for remembering which shoe was his left! Proud because they thought it would help them find Arnie! But it hadn't…and they were giving him Arnie's bed. So Arnie was never coming back. Sammy shook slightly with anger, as he sat on his new bed.

When the time came for lunch, he followed Mr. Stone and his students – Samuel, in spite of being in the big boys' room, still had 'classes' with the babies for the next six months – down to the dining hall. He got to sit with the big boys at the proper tables as well, but it didn't thrill him the way he had thought it would. Sitting, eating his lunch, while staring directly at the little table the orphanage used for the babies whenever they got to eat with the big boys and girls, Samuel was miserable. Worse still, no one sat directly across from him at the big boys' table, so he could see everything the babies did: especially Tommy, who also had no one across from him and was therefore not only directly in Sammy's line of sight, but also facing him. Facing him and smiling. It was an innocent smile: a _friendly_ smile, just like the little wave the baby gave, the smile of a baby who didn't even realise they had done something wrong. It was the smile of someone shy, someone sweet, who had spotted a friend. It was a _nice_ smile. It made Samuel's blood boil.

He was on his feet and moving before he even registered the decision to do so. As he had been seated near the head of the table, he didn't have far to go. As he stalked across the room, his hands clenched and he, himself, seething in his fury, it seemed only moments had passed before he stood above Tommy, towering above the little baby. …The little baby who dared to smile up at him.

"Hello!" Tommy chirped, his face remarkably clean of foodstuffs.

The sound of the impact of a little fist on flesh shocked everyone in the room, even the owner of the little fist. But seeing Tommy's little face turn back up at him, wide-eyed in shock and confusion – and maybe just a little bit of fear – Sammy quickly overcame his shock. It was replaced by a new feeling: satisfaction. Had he been older, if he had possessed a bigger vocabulary, he might have said he relished the lost, hurt look on the smaller boy's face; that he was revelling in his anger; that, in some way, his actions were vindicated. But he didn't, so he just smiled – a tight, angry smile.

Hesitantly, for he was still terribly confused by what had happened, Tommy smiled back. Sammy punched him again. It felt good to see little baby, the little brat (that was what the doctor was always calling the children and Sammy didn't think she meant it kindly) hurt.

_He deserves it,_ Samuel thought as he pulled the three year old, who hung limply in shock, off the bench: _he deserves it for letting Arnie go!_

"SAMUEL!" Mary shrieked in horror, as she finally came to her senses.

Samuel let go of Tom's shirt (by which he had hoisted him from his seat) and let him stand; only to bring his fist down on the younger boy's face again. "Your fault," he snarled, the volume of his words rising with every syllable and every punch and every step forward he took to match Tom's backwards stumbling. "Your fault, your_ fault_, YOUR FAULT!"

Tommy stared at him, bleeding from the nose and still too shocked (as, indeed, was everyone else) to move in his defence. Further aggravated by Tom's unresponsiveness, and thereby just avoiding Lucy's attempt to grab and restrain him, Samuel launched himself at Tom and knocked them both to the floor. There was a sickening crack as Tom's little body, weighed down by Sammy's, hit the floor: hitting it so hard that his head was forced back up by the power of the kinetic energy – which had nowhere else to go – only to hit the floor again moments later.

But Samuel, in his rage, was not finished and – sitting on Tom's chest and thus pinning him to the floor – began to throw punches at the other boy's face again. It was at this point, for the first time, that Tom overcame his own shock – his confusion – and began to fight back; something he only had to do because the nursery caretakers were shocked and the other staff were, by then, attempting to keep the other orphans in their seats and all of the staff were trying to avoid anyone else joining in (in fact, Lucy, who was not nearly as incompetent from shock as her closest co-worker, Mary, was too busy restraining Dennis from coming to Tom's aid to do anything for the boy being attacked).

Tom, being smaller and less powerful, never managed to land a punch on his attacker, he only managed to deflect them. But, moments after he began struggling under the larger boy, Harold Cole was out of his chair and ripped the older boy, still snarling and struggling, away from him.

Restrained in Harold's arms, Sammy looked down at Tom again – as Tom, struggling to hold his upper body off the floor by holding himself up on his elbows, looked up at him, angry, confused and hurt – and quite suddenly began to cry, despite his best efforts. As Martha hurried to attend the littler boy, Samuel squirmed around in the elderly man's arms and buried his face against the man's large shoulder.

"I want Arnie," he bawled. "I want Arnie! I want Arn-nie-eh-eh-eh…" His words trailed off into choked sobs. Nevertheless, amid the pandemonium in the dining hall, they went mostly unnoticed. Also mostly unnoticed was the doctor's cursory examination of the boy on the floor and her subsequent act of lifting him and carrying him to the infirmary, ignoring the loud arguments and conversations that had sprung up throughout the dining hall.

"–orrible boy!"

"–lly let the children here behave like wild anima–"

"I told you something must've happened! I told you!"

" –at's nothing, I heard Arnold's body was locked in–"

" –ouldn't have attacked him unless something bad–"

The doctor sneered as she left. _As soon as the need to act has ended they act,_ she thought, a sneer making its way onto her face, _and as soon as it's over they all have something important to say about it. Pathetic. _

* * *

Tom whimpered and pulled away from the gentle hands stroking his face, their touch lighter than that of a feather and quite icy in temperature. His eyes were hot and itchy, his face hurt to move, he had what felt liked dried snot on his upper lip and his head hurt. He sniffled.

Martha snapped the medical logbook on her desk shut and crossed over to his bed, only a few steps out of reach. Perching herself carefully next to his legs, she sat on his bed.

"How do you feel?" she inquired, a murmur; but not out of consideration for his sore head.

"Ow," Tom said.

"Anything else?" the doctor replied.

Tom stared at her, not as vaguely as he had in the dining room, but still with clear confusion on his face. Or, perhaps, the latter was caused by her sense of humour. Apparently having decided that yes, she did actually want more information, Tom spoke, "I'm c-cold."

This answer seemed to perturb Martha, who frowned and reached out to feel her patient's forehead.

Tom flinched away from the touch, because his head hurt and he didn't want anything touching it, but the further back he got the colder he became. Martha evidently noticed this and her fingers stopped just moments away from touching him. However, her eyes were focused above his head, at the window behind her desk, on the lower pane of which small ice crystals had formed.

A small crease appeared between her eyebrows – one of the few signs of the slight frown that had almost appeared on her face. Tom could see her breath, which – in his opinion – was odd, because they were inside.

"How badly concussed is he?" Eleanor asked quietly.

"He is not," the doctor bluntly replied, not bothering to look at the figure in the doorway.

"Are you certain?" Eleanor asked.

That time Martha actually did look at her colleague: over her shoulder and amazingly blank-faced apart from the glare she usually reserved for people who she felt were obviously too unintelligent to live, but she looked nonetheless.

"Sorry," Eleanor muttered.

The doctor gave a sort of satisfied snort before turning back to her patient. When the younger Mrs. Cole did not leave immediately after this dismissal, however, she turned back to her.

"What is it?" the doctor snapped.

"Sergeant Brown is waiting for you downstairs," Eleanor replied, either unruffled by the doctor's poor bedside manner or determined to appear unaffected by it. "Something about having arranged for you to check if the 'new one' in a Clive Janvier's office was on your records?"

The doctor's stony expression betrayed nothing of the matter, which was an annoyance to Mrs. Cole the younger – who felt rather baffled by the somewhat coded language the sergeant had used and would have liked to have known what the message she was conveying actually meant.

"I see," the doctor finally said. There was a pause. "Ask him if Janvier has an intern at the moment." At Eleanor's exasperated look, she added: "Or send him up."

Five minutes later, in which Tom had been poked and prodded far more than he would have preferred and Martha had done strange things to the lighting while staring at his eyes, the sergeant entered, somewhat bemused.

"Marty," he greeted the doctor, with a nod.

"Tom," she replied, her tone frosty.

"Yes?" Tommy asked, wondering why she spoke to, but didn't look at, him.

Martha turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised, before turning back to the sergeant and Eleanor, who had followed him back up.

"It would appear his mental faculties are undamaged," the doctor stated and, due to her tone, it was quite impossible to say whether or not it had been meant in jest.

Sergeant Brown frowned as he looked at the boy. "There is an intern. Is there a problem with the heating in here?" he asked, as usual cutting straight to the point.

"Evidently," Martha said.

Eleanor frowned. "But the fires are on," she replied, her tone suggesting protest to the idea. "I know for a fact that the fires are on," she repeated, nodding to the small fireplace near Martha's desk.

Tommy shivered slightly, not actually paying that much attention to the conversation.

Having examined the room visually, again, Eleanor continued. "It is only very cold by your desk and the windows," she pointed out. "Therefore it is more likely that we have some form of problem with the heat escaping than a problem with the chimney."

"An unfortunate predicament," the doctor said.

For a moment, the sergeant and the younger orphanage worker shared a glance, then the sergeant spoke, "You are going to have to extrapolate on that one, Marty. Heaven knows I cannot keep up with you half the time."

"The boy," the doctor replied. "He does not appear to be concussed and is operating normally for the moment, but he ought to have bed rest – which he cannot in the infirmary, due to the temperature difficulties which shall have to be investigated."

"I shall send Henry up to see what he can do about it," Eleanor said.

The doctor nodded and continued, "It is necessary that I go with Thomas, and the appropriate medical files as they may be required, but it is unacceptable to leave a possible concussion alone."

"And therefore you wanted to know about the intern," the sergeant said, somewhat exasperated, as realization set in.

Eleanor looked between them in confusion, then – realizing what was being implied – spoke, "You cannot mean that you intend to take him with you!"

"I cannot very well leave him alone," the doctor said, her tone quiet but final.

* * *

As it happened, however, it was Clive Janvier himself, rather than the intern, that met with Sergeant Brown, Doctor Elder, the toddler and the medical files, when they arrived. Janvier, naturally, was rather alarmed by the toddler's presence.

"If I had known you would have a patient whom you could not leave," Janvier said, discomforted, "I would not have sent Jenkins home."

"Why did you?" Sergeant Brown asked.

Janvier, who was impeccably British in spite of his grandfather's French surname, shook his head and made a little noise of dissatisfaction. "He was being quite useless. I don't normally mind that, but he was getting in the way. He kept talking about how sad it all was. It no doubt is to those who think of it that way, but I do not and the boy had a job to do – which he was not doing. I understand that the first case with a child is usually harder for the interns – especially one like this – but if he doesn't learn to do the job in spite of that he is going to have to choose another profession."

Both Sergeant Brown and Doctor Elder nodded at this, as they each had dealt with similar incidents in the past. There was then a moment of silence, as each of the three contemplated the best way to deal with the fact that what Doctor Elder had been called in to see was something her patient, who she daren't leave alone and who was safely held in her arms, was also something a child ought not to be exposed to if at all possible.

Doctor Elder handed the medical files she had taken with her, and her muff, to Sergeant Brown and, in one swift move, pulled the toddler's little winter hat down over his eyes.

Tom, naturally, yelped. When he raised a little hand to pull it off, however, the doctor moved his hands away.

"Dark in here," Tommy stated, confused by the adult's strange behaviour.

"It is a game," Janvier said quickly. "The longer you keep your hat over your eyes, the better you are at the game."

"Oh," Tom replied. But he made no further move to adjust the hat.

"Where is the…cadaver?" the doctor inquired, the minor adjustment in her word choice still the only sign of the consideration for the child resting on her hip.

With a slight nod of the head, Janvier led them through to the other room.

"It smells bad here," Tom announced as they entered, scrunching up his nose at the same time. "Like nappy change time."

"Yes, yes," Janvier said. "I do apologise for that. The gases sometimes escape when the cadaver is moved and I had just finished examining another before you arrived."

"Gases?" Tom asked.

"Tom," the doctor said.

"Yes?" the little boy replied.

"Be silent."

Apparently deciding that this was sound advice, Tom buried his – still very sore – face in the doctor's soft, furry, winter coat's shoulder in the hope that the smell would have greater difficulty reaching his nose from there.

The doctor stiffened, uncomfortable with the toddler's show of… familiarity. "If he deposits nasal mucus on my mink coat, I will be most displeased," she said, her tone oddly tight.

The sergeant merely rolled his eyes at this, knowing perfectly well that; had the doctor been at all attached to the coat she was wearing; she would not have worn it to visit the morgue.

Janvier led the two adults over to the tray on which the cadaver in question had been placed. No sheet covered it, as any sheet would simply have been stained with the bodily fluids and dirt.

Doctor Elder looked over the cadaver slowly, not put out by its appearance in the slightest. "Where was it found?"

"Partially buried in the snow, which is probably why it has only just reached black putrefaction, something which normally–"

"Would have occurred three weeks after death, yes, I am aware," Doctor Elder said, cutting him off. "Let us not waste time going over what we already know."

Janvier nodded, vaguely aware that this was not meant unpleasantly because he was of a similar character and was, thus, similarly inclined to avoid wasting time. In fact, he had not even considered the possibility that it could have been meant or taken negatively.

"Judging by the injuries, it was probably not an accident, but the length of the postmortem interval makes it… difficult to be certain," he stated.

"Injuries?"

"There appears to be evidence of stab wounds and possibly physical assault – I understand that your missing person was recorded as being in perfect health at the time of his disappearance," the coroner explained.

Doctor Elder nodded. "He was. If this cadaver is our missing person then you ought to be able to identify it from the dental records," this was said with a slight nod of the head in the direction of the files held by Sergeant Brown. "The missing person's teeth were… rather irregular."

For the first time, Sergeant Brown spoke up. "In the event that the cadaver and the missing person turn out to be the same individual, what does that mean for the timeframe in which the death occurred? How long would he have been alive after he went missing?"

"The postmortem interval is not exact. It can only ever be an approximate. Considering all the factors – such as the snow's effect on slowing decomposition – I would surmise that this death occurred somewhere between two and three weeks ago, but it is entirely possible that he was killed the night he disappeared."

"Before you said that there was evidence of stab wounds, but now you say 'killed' with quite some certainty," Doctor Elder said.

"I say evidence because of the level of decomposition, very little else could have made such injuries. The skin has blistered and there is slippage of it, but the marks on the skin do appear to be consistent with the violence of one human to another. The same can be said for the broken bones – and there is… also a small bullet lodged in the skull. It seems to be what destroyed the left eye. Technically, however, it is possible that the child managed to use it on himself, but it is… unlikely."

"Why did you not mention this immediately?" Doctor Elder asked her tone sharp.

"I generally have found that it is easier to start with the less… upsetting information," the coroner replied.

"I do not," the doctor replied, brusquely.

At that moment, Sergeant Brown cut in. "We also found part of what might have been a shirt by the cadaver – it was in a park some ways from the Olympia – with a stylized 'V' on it. It looks like a good match for the Vauxhall Road Orphanage uniform," he said.

Doctor Elder nodded, slightly, tilting her head as if looking directly into what was left of the cadaver's eyes. Finally, she spoke. "I can not be certain, considering the bloating to the face and body and the significant injury to the face, but it does appear to bear enough of a resemblance – all things considered – to the missing person in question that I would not feel presumptuous to say that there is a very good chance that they are, in fact, the same person."

Janvier looked at her cautiously. "Meaning that?"

Doctor Elder swallowed. "Meaning that you can put in your reports that I, upon examination, stated that I was fairly certain that I would be correct to identify the cadaver as our missing person."

* * *

Tom, long forgotten by the adults, pushed his hat up and looked around, having decided that he did not, in fact, like this game – especially when he kept hearing the term 'missing person', something he had heard applied to Arnie many, many times over the past three weeks.

Tom's eyes widened as he caught sight of the flat tray, or maybe bed, the adults were observing. The …thing on it looked like a very odd dolly… but person sized, a bit bigger than Tommy himself. Its eyes – its _eye_ – were open and staring blankly at the ceiling, as if somehow empty... while the other was just…not there. There was a hole in its place with thick brownish-red stuff around it and something white poking out from above it. Its mouth was also partially open; Mary always said he would start catching flies if he left his open like that, so Tom wondered why the… thing wasn't catching any.

Tom blinked and dared to look a little closer. The thing's hair was a terrible mess – it even had leaves in it and clumps of dried mud holding it in odd shapes – to say nothing of the twisted form of the body. One leg was bent at the knee, the other hung sideways; in a position Tom knew most people couldn't have gotten their leg into, with another odd solid white thing poking out of the solid red stuff. Its arms and hands, also, were not straight down by its sides. Its fingernails and toenails (Tom could see both and wondered why the thing wasn't cold without socks on) looked much longer than they ought to be – the thing hadn't been trimming them – at least, that is, the nails that had not fallen off. It looked oddly pale from the top, as if the skin – which looked like it was separate from, and almost peeled away from, the bits underneath (like a disgustingly wet version of the snake's skin Martha had shown him in one of her books, after he'd met the Hissy… whenever that had been) – didn't have any blood in it. But lower down, on the thing's sides, the skin was an odd bluish-purple colour, with a tiny bit of redness or pinkness where it was pressed against the tray.

Led by unknowingly morbid curiosity, Tom's eyes trailed back up the thing's body: away from its unwashed feet, along its swollen belly and back to its, slightly bloated, face. It was then that Tom came to a startling conclusion.

He must have made some sort of noise at that point, for all three of the adults looked down at him.

"Can we go now?" Tom asked, clinging slightly tighter to the doctor.

"Tom," Sergeant Brown began, sounding both kind and stern, "how much did you see?"

"Considering that it is laid out directly in front of him, I would imagine that he has seen all of it," the coroner pointed out.

Tom, however, ignored this – choosing, instead, to focus his attention on the doctor. Blinking up at her with wide eyes, Tom voiced the thought that had been bothering him. "Is that Arnie?" he whispered.

Doctor Elder's face tensed, and her eyes moved in many directions as she looked around the room; considering how best to answer the child's query. "We don't know yet," she finally said.

"Ask him," Tom replied.

"I'm afraid he can't answer at the moment, Tom," she said.

Tom frowned and looked between the thing and the doctor. "Is he sleeping?"

"Something akin to that," Sergeant Brown answered, his voice tense from worry regarding the unfortunate turn the conversation had taken.

"Then wake him up," Tom insisted.

"That is impossible, Tom," Doctor Elder said.

"Why?"

The doctor's mouth twisted slightly, a clear sign that she was unhappy. She looked at the coroner as if expecting him to answer for her.

"Don't look at me," Janvier said. "I'm the coroner, not the mortician. I don't deal with this sort of thing."

Clearly displeased with this, Doctor Elder spoke to the toddler in a cold, waspish tone. "Because when you receive certain injuries, Maas, you never wake up again," she said, staring at the two men in the room, rather than the boy she was speaking to.

Both the sergeant and the coroner looked at her in shock.

"I am a general practitioner," she told them, somewhat acerbically, "not a nanny."

* * *

That night, after all the others had been put to bed, Tom refused to sleep. He ought to have been under the doctor's watch that night, but between Henry still being uncertain why and how the infirmary had been loosing heat and Tom's sudden refusal to stay with the doctor, he had been returned to the nursery. As much as she tried, Mary could not get the boy to so much as go near his bed as he reacted with panic every time she tried to get him to lie down. He was clearly terrified, but she could see no reason why. The answers he gave to her questions were equally unhelpful; he babbled about a 'thing' and wanting to wake up again – and regularly insisted that the 'thing' might be on his bed, or in one of the filled beds in the room.

Eventually, as she could see no other way, Mary lifted the little boy into her arms and – as she sat and rocked in the rocking chair – attempted to sing him to sleep.

"Hush a bye baby," she crooned softly, thankful for the sweet voice and ear for music she had been blessed with. "On the tree top," she sang, her voice shaking slightly as the trees creaked in the harsh winds outside. "W-when the wind blows the cradle will rock."

Slowly, comforted by the tune, Tom's little hands began to release their tight grip on her blouse. "When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall…"

Finally his eyes slid closed and yet she continued to sit, singing to an unhearing audience, while in a creaking old rocking chair and watching the lamplight flicker in the darkness. "…down tumbles baby, cradle and all…"


	17. Heart of Stone: March 30th, 1930

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** Firstly, I'm currently in the middle of exam week, so no guarantees on when I get the next chapter written and up. I can't – and won't – apologize for the long pause this story has had, since I have to put my studies first. Also, I'm second generation Atheist on my father's side and, at least, third generation Atheist on my mother's side: so if I've made a mistake with the Protestant religion, please inform me politely – I do try my best with the research.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Heart of Stone**

When Arnold had first disappeared, no new rules were put in place. There had been a half hour long speech from the old matron about not running away and the appropriate action to take if you thought you had seen a relative, but no one had thought to change the rules. It was only after the news came from the police – the news that the dental records, compared by the coroner, matched – that anyone decided the children should not be allowed to run so far and so freely. The logic was that, even though they had been on an outing and Arnold had run away, whomever had broken Arnold's leg and left a bullet in his brain had not been caught, nor had the police any suspects, so that person might not have any problem with killing another orphaned child if they accidentally got in the way. Those staff members who were more inclined to forward thinking were of the opinion that the new rules (such as having to return to the orphanage earlier, if you were an orphan, and not going beyond the orphanage gates without one other person at the very least, also if you were an orphan) would not last more than a few months, as they were the result of fear. For the time being, however, the rules were in place and slowly but surely the restrictions on the children's freedom were causing restlessness among the orphans – thereby leading to a rise in the number of rows the children had and the irritation of the staff.

Nevertheless, the new rules had already significantly relaxed from what they had been at the time of Arnold's funeral; during which Tom had wandered off to say hello to a little girl in an expensive looking dress, who had been standing alone by one of the other graves. Once Mary had found him, she had dragged him back to the others, without giving him the chance to do more than wave goodbye to his newfound friend, and had scolded him for almost ten minutes about wandering off ("Think of what happened to Arnold! Today of all days!" she had exclaimed). Then she had burst into tears, but Tom had thought that probably had more to do with him asking why, exactly, they were putting Arnie in a box in the ground when he wouldn't be able to get out. Tom had also been fairly certain that was the reason (he knew tears could make it hard to see) Mary hadn't actually seen his new friend, who had still been standing by her grave, when he had tried to point out to Mary that he hadn't been alone and he'd a good reason to wander off: the girl had looked sad, he'd explained. That, however, had just made Mary cry more and Simon, the cook, had been forced to come over and make her tears turn off.

Tom also hadn't been – and still wasn't – entirely certain what a 'month' was, other than that it was a long time and that it was (or so older – that is: taller – people had said) the exact amount of time that had passed between Arnie going away and Arnie being put in a closed box in the ground. But Clarice, who was four and a lot, at the time, had said that older people did strange things when they 'grows up' and that it was probably just Arnie 'growsing up', because he'd been moved to the big boys' rooms. Clarice had also said that 'growsed up 'dults' also did strange things regularly; just like her Papa, who had always become angry with her and started swaying when he'd had too much whiskers and that he'd eventually been put in a box as well... after her Papa had gone in his box, her Mama had started having too much whiskers too. Tom, after careful consideration of his options, had told her that he preferred triangles to boxes – sandwiches tasted better that way – and that he didn't want whiskers when he 'growsed up', because he wanted to be a turtle. None of the adults around them seemed to have understood the depth and importance of his conversation with Clarice, and his attempts to explain the matter had simply resulted in more confusion on the part of the big people. Simon had been forced to make Mary's tears turn off again, though.

That was something Tom had thought about quite a bit over the two months – or, at least, he had been told it was two months – since the funeral ('funeral' apparently just meant visiting nice Reverend Bert – Reverend Honeycutt, someone would always try to correct him – and standing around while someone in a box was put in the ground). _Why,_ he had wondered,_ couldn't Mary turn her own tears off?_

However, the one time he had tried to ask, Sammy had said mean things to him, so he didn't ask again: he didn't want to be stupid. That night he had managed to squirm out of Lucy's grasp at bed time and went looking for Mr. Stone, who wouldn't tell anyone if he was stupid, but he had just smiled sadly when Tom finished his question. Then, suddenly, he had been in the air and then in Mary's arms, being carried back to bed.

Tom Riddle opened his eyes slowly, staring blearily up at the woman who dared wake him when he was still sleepy. Mary, however, simply smiled down at him, ruffled his hair and said something about how adorable he was.

Tom looked around the room, rubbing his left eye sleepily. He was the only one awake in the nursery, so, naturally, he pouted. There was, after all, absolutely no reason for him to be taken away from his nice warm bed when no one else had to get up yet.

Mary picked him up, still tangled in his blanket, and placed him on the floor. Tom burrowed deeper into his blankets as he tiredly watched Mary walk over to the very high up cabinet (the one that Sammy, who was the tallest, could not even get near to reaching when he stood on his bed and stretched himself up as much as possible). Balanced on the balls of her feet, Mary opened the cabinet doors and began to search for something.

Mary smiled widely and reached further into the cabinet. "Found you," she murmured as her hand closed around her quarry.

Tom, now significantly more awake and interested, perked up at this. However, he assumed that Mary would bring anything she wanted him to see to him, so he did not bother to move. He was correct, as proven moments later as she knelt on the floor in front of him, while holding a long wooden box in her hands.

Tom stared at it. It had no doorknob. Tom was fairly certain that 'doorknob' was what the bit used to doors, and things, was called. He frowned.

Mary's hands pressed on parts of the box and suddenly – to Tom's amazement – it had a lid; an open lid.

"Clever, isn't it?" Mary asked, her smile taking slightly more effort than it normally would. "It's a trick box," she added, uncertain if that was the proper term for her family antique.

"Trick box," Tom repeated, somewhat dubiously.

Mary's face seemed to flicker for a moment, as her smile began to fall and was forced back onto her face. "We keep the very little possessions of the children in the nursery in it. We have to; if you found them you could… choke."

Now Tom looked intrigued and he leaned forward to take a better look at the box. "I…are my things in there?" he finally asked, struggling with the words.

"Some things are yours, some belong to the others," Mary replied. Somehow, to Tom, she seemed terribly sad and… hurt, in a way. "You're Mummy left you some things, before she died." Mary swallowed uncomfortably and continued, "She wanted you to have them." Her face took on a strained expression as she took two objects out of the long box: a smaller box and an old wooden stick. Noticing that the toddler's attention was firmly fixed on the tiny red box, Mary picked it up and opened it – revealing a shiny silver ring.

Tom's eyes widened as the ring glittered slightly, its tiny gemstones catching the light at just the right angle, and one of his little hands reached out to touch it as he made a noise that was something of a cross between a cooing sound and a sound of surprise. "Pretty," he mumbled.

For one tense moment, self-loathing flickered across the orphanage worker's face. Then it was gone, replaced with a bright and sunny smile which was just a little too wide and a little too tense. "Yes it is, isn't it?" she replied, snapping the box closed more forcefully than she needed to. "But you mustn't touch it. You are still too little, you could choke." She quickly put the ring and the stick back in the box and closed it as she spoke, "So they shall stay in here until you are old enough to have them, but every time someone says something unpleasant to you, you can just look up at the cabinet and know that your Mummy left you something really beautiful because she loved you."

Tom watched her, frowning, as she stood as placed the box on the countertop – somewhat haphazardly and certainly less than straight – with quite a bit more force than she normally would have. He didn't honestly understand that much of adult behaviour, but he was keenly aware that his caretaker's expressions and inflections did not match the words she had been saying.

Mary finally released the box she had been gripping – and leaning on – from her tightly curled fingers and straightened up, turning to Tom with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Now," she said, "let's wake the others and get ready for church, shall we?"

"Am I interrupting something?" a cold voice asked.

Mary turned and saw Dr. Elder standing in the doorway. "Martha!" she exclaimed. "I do hope you will come to church with us today."

Tom, upon hearing her name and taking his eyes off the precariously balanced box, smiled brilliantly at the doctor.

Martha, however, gave Mary a tight smile that might as well have been a sneer. "I'd rather die," she said and walked away.

"Of course you would," Mary muttered.

Shortly afterward, Lucy entered and the two women conversed happily – although it was strained on Mary's side – as they helped their wards to prepare for church. In fact, as both women had been quite busy with their conversation, their own thoughts and the care of their wards, it was not until they had almost all left the room to begin the walk to church that either noticed that the trick box was still laying on the countertop; with one corner sticking out over the edge. Neither woman would have noticed if Tom had not slipped out of Lucy's grasp – as they had been the last to leave the room – and run back over to the box.

Lucy frowned and followed the little boy. "Tom? What on Earth are you doing?"

Tom, whose concentration was entirely focused on reaching the box – that was quite beyond his grasp – replied in a less than patient tone; "My things!"

Lucy stared at him. After a few moments of – perfectly still – indecision, she crossed the room with sharp, fast steps and opened the box. Her breathing was unusually fast for no reason at all and suddenly the world seemed to be moving much slower than it normally did, as she pushed the lid open the rest of the way. Her thumbs trailed slowly over the red cloth that furnished the inside of the box. The stick was no surprise – it was the only thing the boy's mother had with her, apart from the rags she'd been wearing, when she had died – neither was the small necklace that had been left with little Clarice when she had been abandoned, nor was the tiny statue of a soldier that had once belonged to Donald's mother. The tiny ring box, though, that was the surprise. It was clearly a ring box, there was nothing else it could be – but Lucy had not been informed of it and it shouldn't have been there.

Ignoring Tom's insistent tugging at her skirt and repetitive calling of "Mine! Mine!" Lucy opened the little box. The shiny and reasonably new ring inside was moderate; both in size and decoration, not to mention clearly so in approximate cost. Driven by impulses she could not have explained, Lucy raised the ring in her delicate fingers and, holding it before her eyes, looked at the inside of the band for an inscription. It was not hard to find.

_Lucy and Jonathan, forever and always._

Lucy dropped the ring.

Tom immediately picked it up and was on the verge of putting it in his mouth when Lucy ripped it from the grasp of his little fingers.

"Where did you find this?" she asked, shaking.

"It's mine," Tom replied.

"_WHERE_ DID YOU _FIND_ IT?" she asked again, her voice cracking with the intensity and pitch of the nearly shrieked inquiry.

Tom's eyes widened; in surprise and alarm, as he took a step backward. "M-mummy left if for me," he said.

"Impossible!"

Lucy shoved the ring back into its box, then quickly shoved the little box back into the trick box and slammed it shut. After a few moments, she opened it again – apparently having changed her mind – and slipped the ring box into one of her coat pockets. Once she had shut the trick box again, she grabbed Tom by the hand and rather forcefully led him from the room.

* * *

Lucy held his hand all through the service and her grip was so tight that it had soon begun to hurt his little hand. Tom scowled at her, then turned his head to stare at Mary – who was quite beyond his reach due to the number of toddlers between them and the baby, Annie, in her lap – in the hope that she would take pity on him and get him away from Lucy, who still had not explained why she had taken his Mummy's ring. Mary did not look at him once during the entire service – even though the occasional shifting suggested she could, in fact, feel his gaze upon her – and Tom, although he didn't understand why, could tell she was trying to pretend he wasn't there.

Lucy still hadn't let go of his hand by the time the service had finished and everyone was leaving the building – mainly mulling about in groups as they spoke with neighbours and others who were staying in the area. In fact, her grip tightened as she dragged him over to Mr. Stone and demanded to speak with him privately.

Across the small courtyard, Mary shook her head at her co-worker's behaviour. She sniffled slightly and discretely wiped her eyes with her hand. Moments later a handkerchief was pressed lightly into the grip of her wet fingers.

"Something troubles you, my dear?" the Reverend murmured, looking down at her in concern.

Mary made a strangled noise and clutched the handkerchief tighter. "I've done something terrible," she choked out.

The Reverend frowned. "That I find hard to believe," he replied.

"God does not approve of lying… or liars," she stated, her tone cold with self-disgust.

Reverend Honeycutt's warm brown eyes seemed to soften slightly, almost as if he were imploring her to continue.

Mary sniffed angrily and waved a hand half-heartedly at Lucy, who was dragging Tom and Jonathan out of sight. "He gave me a ring," she explained, "to give to the boy when he was older. I showed it to him today." Her face twisted slightly, a strange mockery of a smile gracing it. "I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I… I told him his mother left it for him. The boy is three and I lied to him and…" she broke off, making a choked noise. "Oh God, he looked so _happy_ when I showed it to him, oh _God_." Almost immediately, she had the handkerchief hiding her face, as she dabbed miserably at her eyes.

The Reverend laid a hand gently on her shoulder, suddenly feeling quite old. "Dear lady," he said, his tone soft and kind. "My dear lady, he is benevolent and he is merciful – he will not punish you, in turn, for an act of _kindness_."

Mary continued to stare at the floor, while dabbing her eyes, as she considered this. Finally, she moved the handkerchief away from her face and, although her eyes were still brimming with tears, gave the Reverend a weak smile.

* * *

Tommy was confused; Lucy was still gripping his hand too tightly, but now Mr. Stone was holding the other one – trying to remove him from Lucy's grip – and they were still talking about nothing. They had talked – rowed, really – about whether or not Mr. Stone should leave the rest of the churchgoers for a few minutes to have a more private conversation with Lucy, they had talked about whether or not they actually had something to discuss – without mentioning what it was – and they had talked about how appropriate it was that Tom was there.

Now, for the first time in, at least, ten minutes, Lucy was finally beginning to realise that the man she had been arguing with honestly didn't know why she was angry with him.

"This," she snarled, giving in to her frustration and removing the ring box from her coat pocket for the sole purpose of shoving it into Jonathan Stone's face. "_Why_ does _he_ have _this_?"

The sheer amount of emphasis she placed on the words would have made it impossible to miss her meaning, even if she hadn't practically been pushing the little box against the schoolmaster's nose.

"He has it because it is his property," Jonathan said calmly, gently pushing the intrusive hand away.

"No it's not!" Lucy replied.

"Yes," he said, firmly, "it is."

Tommy looked between them curiously.

"It has my name on it!" Lucy stated, her voice once again beginning to soar toward the higher octaves.

"That does not make it yours, young lady," Mr. Stone replied coldly, then turned and began to walk away.

"But it certainly doesn't make it his!" Lucy shrieked.

Jonathan Stone just kept walking.

"You owe me an explanation, Jonathan!" Lucy called after him, clearly both furious and indignant.

Jonathan stopped and spun around to face her. "I owe you nothing," he spat.

Lucy had clearly tried to catch up with him – leaving Tom and the ring box, the latter of which was laying forgotten on the ground, but which Tom would indubitably pick up, behind her – for she was now only a few paces away, shaking with rage and with her hands balled by her sides.

Jonathan's shoulders moved downward slightly – not because they relaxed, but because the man poise shifted slightly with resignation – and the fury seemed to have seeped from his face, leaving an unreadable blankness in its place.

"Do you remember the last time we went out?" he asked quietly.

Lucy blinked in confusion and shook her head.

"It was Monday, the twenty-fourth of January, nineteen-twenty-seven," he said, his tone betraying nothing of his feelings. "We'd had dinner and gone out dancing. I had the ring box in my pocket… I was going to ask you to marry me. Moments before I could, you saw someone you knew and left our table. I spent two hours sitting there, with the ice in my glass melting, watching you dance with Sir John Blackwood …waiting for you to remember I was there. Eventually, I paid the bill and left. I gave the ring to the boy, since it was clear that you wouldn't want it." For the first time his tone wavered, letting in the slightest of accusatory undercurrents, "Does that satisfy you?"

Lucy took an involuntary step backward, as her emotions – hurt and anger, mostly, but also some confusion and what looked like it might have been regret – played out across her face and, when she spoke, her tone was accusatory, "I didn't suddenly stop loving you, Jon, you walked out. You walked out on me without an explanation and left me alone. I never stopped loving you."

"That, madam," he replied in a downright frigid tone, "is because you never started."

* * *

Doctor Martha Elder had made a habit out of making house calls for other doctors in the area on Sundays, when the other doctors were in church. It was a practical approach and, in the matters of both respect and finance, it served her well. On this day – the last Sunday of March – she had not done so. Instead she sat behind her desk in the infirmary, watching the world outside her window in her peripheral vision and the half-filled crystal glass in front of her. Turning it slightly in her hand, and leaning her left elbow on the edge of the desk to hold her arm up, she watched the patterns on the desk change from squares to diamonds, to some abstract, nameless design as the light filtered through the amber liquid. Leaning back in her chair, with only her elbow touching the desk, and her head titled slightly to one side, her posture might have been mistaken for more relaxed than it was, were it not for the telling blankness of her face; which seemed indicative of either deep thought or solemn nostalgia.

As the sounds of children and adults began to become audible – a sure sign that the denizens of the orphanage were returning from church – her eyes trailed back to the other item that had been reflecting the light, as it lay on the centre of the desk; its chain snaking out behind it, further along the wooden furnishing.

The polished silver of the locket glimmered in the sunlight, its oval pendant lying open. In the thinner side – the opening side – of the tiny locket was a black and white photograph, a little girl and a boy sitting primly on a wooden chair, and in the other side of the locket the same image was held, but as a tiny painted portrait. The children were not smiling, but their eyes and expressions betrayed their happiness, their pride, all the same. They shared the same, sharp, delicate features and the same fair complexion. The girl was slightly larger, slightly older, although she could not have been more than seven or eight – her companion; six or seven. They were richly clothed and looked not unlike a pair of porcelain dolls; the girl especially so in her dark green dress, which matched the thick – and most likely velvet – bow that held up part of her luxurious dark brown hair, that, in turn, reached down to her shoulders and curled slightly around them. The boy's hair, although shorter and styled quite differently, was clearly the same in texture and colour – thick and dark, it made him look quite handsome – and there could be no doubt that the two were siblings, although the boy's eyes were darker than the girl's. If there had been any doubt, the matching toy monkeys sitting by them – the girl's: black and the boy's: white – would have put a rest to it.

Doctor Martha Elder lifted the locket by its chain, allowing it to dangle in the sunlight for a moment, then dropped it unceremoniously into the drawer she had opened – and which she then shut sharply, with both unusual speed and force.

Inside the drawer, the two faces – frozen in their eternal youth – stared unseeing at the wood of the drawer above them and the absence of light ensured that the words engraved on the top of the locket's frame – above the two young, painted faces – did not glimmer anymore. The painted faces stared upward, unaware of the words that circled in the engraving above them:

_Maartje en Maasje, 1908_


	18. I Thee Wed: June 22nd, 1930

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** I know you're all probably sick of hearing me say that chapters have been delayed because I've been studying, but that was the reason this chapter took so long to write. Now, however, I have finished the two correspondence courses I've been working on for the last year and am between university semesters (until July 12th, sadly).

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: …I Thee Wed**

It had been on the thirteenth of April, some two or so months earlier, that Lucy Jones had entered the staff meeting late – had stood in the doorway, seemingly bracing herself by holding the doorframe on both sides – and had made the announcement that had so shaken the staff. For the first time since the incident with the ring, in March, Lucy had acknowledged the presence of Jonathan Stone – had, in fact, stood in the doorway and looked around the room; finally focusing on Jonathan Stone, before she began to speak. It had been as if she was informing all of her colleagues, but the words had been meant only for him. In fact, once her eyes had met his, they had not looked away throughout the entire announcement and the tension that had clearly been building between the two since the end of March seemed almost physically present in the room – so much so that even little Tom, who was only in the late night staff meeting because he had wet his bed and been so miserable (even after being cleaned up) that he had refused to let go of Mary, noticed that something was off and, subsequently, had remained silent as he watched.

A slight tremor had run through Lucy's slight frame just moments before she spoke, but her tone – albeit soft – had been firm and had not shaken. "Tonight, Sir John Blackwood asked me to marry him," she had said, more a statement of fact than an announcement, and paused; allowing this information to be absorbed by those in the room. "…and I said yes."

There had been a few moments of silence, during which neither Jonathan nor Lucy had torn their gaze away from the other's; as if they thought that – by sheer force of will alone – all that remained unspoken between them could be conveyed with that one look, and then chaos had reigned as, having moved on from their shock, almost everyone had suddenly had something to say.

It had been on the thirteenth of April, some two or so months earlier, that the whispers had started.

* * *

Mary Bonner strode through the corridor, hurrying – but not yet actually rushing – to bring the basket of dirty clothing to the laundry for sorting, before the girls on sorting duty finished. Normally she would not have needed to, as she would have had Lucy's assistance, but Lucy was not there to help her and Mary, consequently, was overworked. Worse still; it was Sunday morning and the sorting – which ought to have been done on Saturday night – needed to be finished before they went to church, else all the subsequent chores would also be late and the entire schedule would be compromised.

As she passed the infirmary, Mary had to force herself not to check in on her wards – who were temporarily under Doctor Elder's watchful, albeit dubious, care – and carry on.

In the end, it turned out that she needn't have worried: the two girls doing the laundry that day had not come close to finishing, as they were too busy gossiping to get the sorting done.

Susan and Anne, with their heads bent together, were giggling – so much so, in fact, that Mary could only make out part of what they were saying.

"Honestly!" that was Anne, certainly.

"Who does she think–" Susan gasped out, her giggling making the rest of the sentence quite incomprehensible – although Mary could easily guess how it had ended.

Anne, still unaware they were being watched, shook her head as much of her merriment faded at the opportunity to impart more of her knowledge on her friend. "It isn't who she is," she explained in a rushed, yet still hushed, tone. "It is who _he_ is."

"Oh?" Susan replied, absently fiddling with the laundry she was holding. "Who is he, then?"

"Awfully bloody wealthy, that's who!" the first girl crowed, moments before she and her companion collapsed into giggles once more. "It's obvious to everyone – he is much, much older than her!"

Attempting to sit upright once more, as she recovered from her fit of giggles, Susan gasped "Really!" in a tone that made it clear she was attempting to scold a joke which she found too amusing to truly look down upon.

"It is true," Anne replied; eager to reach what she felt was the most important part of the news. "I heard Eleanor – terribly sorry: _Mrs._ Cole – saying it not two days ago!"

"And aren't they two peas in a pod!" Susan crowed mirthfully, thinking of how their fellow orphan had married into the staff.

Mary, red-faced from embarrassment at what she had overheard, cleared her throat. Immediately the hilarity died and the two girls turned to stare at the orphanage worker, while mentally calculating how much had probably been overheard and how much trouble that meant they were in. Figuring that the sum of the calculation was 'a significant amount', both girls bowed their heads and took a remarkable interest in the black and white tiles of the laundry floor.

For her part Mary, rather flustered, spluttered her way through the scolding: "What were… completely unacceptable…" in fact, it seemed she almost unable to form a full sentence until, choosing to treat the fourteen year olds the way she did her toddlers, she wagged her finger in the girl's faces. "You do not talk about other people in that disgusting manner," she scolded, "it is wrong and it is cruel and it is bad. Bad, bad, bad. The poor woman is getting married tomorrow and here you are spreading lies about her when you should be doing your chores!"

"Not lies," Anne muttered.

Mary turned to her, shocked and angry. "What did you say?"

Anne head snapped up, her face set in anger and determination, and she glared into the orphanage worker's eyes. "I said they are _not_ lies," she replied, her tone forceful and clipped. "She's only marrying him because he is wealthy. That way she doesn't have to worry about herself while the rest of us suffer!"

Mary, not willing to face the verbalization of thoughts she, herself, had – briefly and ashamedly – entertained, dropped the laundry basket between the girls and snapped, "Go back to your chores!" Then she turned to leave.

"They are not our chores," Susan said bitterly, from somewhere behind her, just as Mary reached the door. "They are _her_ chores – you are only making us do them because she took an extra day off when she wasn't supposed to, to do her," the last words were spat, "flower arrangements."

* * *

Tommy was having a very good day. Admittedly, he and Denny had been a bit bored during the big story time in Reverend Bert's nice building – Tommy hated having to be quiet – but that was over and he was finally going to bring Denny over to meet the friend he had made among the rocks with the writing on them, in March. Denny had been burbling happily about it all day. So much so, in fact, that Tommy had often had to shush him and eventually had told the younger boy that Tom's new friend – the girl named Rosie – was their secret (a word Tom had indubitably learned from the time he had spent in the infirmary, two weeks before, with the flu and nothing to do but bother Martha, who – apparently – had felt that a dictionary was appropriate reading material for someone who was still struggling to spell 'cat' without the k). This had, of course, resulted in Tom having to explain what a 'secret' was, but Tom had not particularly minded, since he enjoyed sharing what he had learned.

The sun was shining brightly, the weather was pleasant and Tom was still wearing the wide, sunny smile that had stopped anyone from telling him off when he had wandered off following a butterfly on their way to church. Dennis had quickly rushed over and pulled him back to the others, though, and had insisted on holding Tom's hand the rest of the way; as if he was afraid something bad would happen if Tom didn't stay where he was supposed to be (with the others). Tom wasn't entirely certain why Dennis had felt the need to do that, but he assumed that it was for the same reason that Dennis insisted on neatly stacking the blocks in their place when they had finished using them, instead of just leaving them where they were; like Tom did. Now, however, as they were emerging from Reverend Bert's big story time room with everyone else (except Martha, who never came to Bert's story times), Tom was grateful for Denny's determination to hold onto his friend's hand – it made it easer to slip away from the adult's without loosing him.

The pair slipped around the corner of the building and out of adult-sight with ease and Tommy grinned at his friend. They were sneaking around behind the adults' backs: this was exciting, like the story Martha had read to him while he'd been ill – or what he had been able to understand of it. After a short time, she had stopped trying to make him understand Gulliver and read him something shorter. Tom had not really understood the proposal, or why it was being modest, but it seemed to have made Martha happier to be reading him that one and Martha had not been particularly… approachable since Mary showed him his Mummy's ring.

Tommy frowned at the thought. Martha was being very confusing. Sometimes she turned away and her – almost always expressionless – face seemed closed-off, like when Tom had told her that she should read the story she'd read him to Mr. Stone because they were both named Jonathan, but at other times (like when she had been reading to him and the one time she'd had a 'house-call', whatever that was, near Reverend Bert's church and had walked him back to the orphanage, even offered him her hand to hold, after he had tried to introduce her to Rosie, because Rosie always had an injury on her face and Martha was supposed to make those better) her eyes would seem warmer and sometimes she would even smile. She had smiled when Tom had been upset that she kept failing to look at Rosie, looking too far to the sides instead, and had murmured something about a 'wild image-nation' while walking him back to the orphanage.

"We meet Rosie now?" Denny chirped from next to him.

Tom, who was slightly taller than his friend, looked down and to the side at Denny – and, as if all his worries were wiped away by his friend's cheerfulness, he smiled the sort of warm smile that not only reaches one's eyes, but seems to keep going. "Yes," he said simply. Then, with his friend's hand in his own, Tom set off among the graves to find Rosie.

* * *

"Mr. Stone?" Reverend Honeycutt asked quietly, having approached the – apparently brooding – man from behind.

The man in question did not turn, choosing instead to continue to look out over the honeysuckle and roses that grew outside the church, and kept his back to all the other churchgoers. "I… appreciate your concern, Reverend," he said, his irritation only noticeable in his overly-precise diction, "but I do not want to talk about it."

The Reverend hesitantly reached out a hand, as if to place it comfortingly on the schoolmaster's shoulder, but it never quite made contact. "My dear man," he murmured.

A muscle in the schoolmaster's jaw twitched. "I do no_t_ want to talk about it," he reiterated.

The hand fell away, having never met its target. "As you wish," the Reverend murmured, leaving the younger man to his thoughts.

The schoolmaster was silent for some time afterward, not moving at all from the position in which the Reverend had left him, still staring at the flowers; not seeing, just staring.

"She is getting married tomorrow," he murmured to himself as the wind picked up; the breeze soft, but strong enough to play with his hair and make the flowers wave. "Move on."

* * *

Tommy looked between Denny and Rosie and smiled broadly. Rosie was also smiling, her curls bouncing as her head bobbed along agreeably while Tommy told Denny and Rosie about each other. Denny, however, appeared distinctly less impressed. Dennis simply looked at the air that Tom was gesturing to and then back at his friend with a look that any fool could recognise as the universal for 'you have got to be kidding me, right?'

Tom's face fell and he exchanged looks with Rosie – his confused, hers disappointed.

"He cannot see me," Rosie said sadly, her shoulders slumping.

"I see you!" Tom pointed out.

Dennis gave him an odd look. "No one there," he said, shaking his head, "Tommy talking to rock."

The six year old girl sighed. "He thinks you are playing pretend," she explained. Her eyes focused on the ground, devoid of their normal twinkle, as she despondently added, "He thinks I am pretend."

"Pretend?" Tom repeated. Then, not willing to have his to friends fighting, he shrugged. Waving one hand between the space Dennis insisted was empty and Dennis himself, Tom spoke. "Denny, Rosie. Rosie, Denny."

Dennis, having accepted more easily that there was someone there he could not see when confronted with someone else reacting to what evidently was therefore there, smiled and waved.

"Hello, Denny," Rosie said, then added, in the tone of one reciting by heart something they were always being told to say, "It is a great pleasure to meet you."

Tom, noticing that Dennis was waiting expectantly, only paused for a moment to figure out how to relay this. "Rosie says hello," he said.

…and so the conversation went, with Tom constantly acting as a go-between for Dennis and Rosie, since he was the only one who could interact with everyone present. It worked remarkably well, especially as Tom often wound up confusing the sentences he was supposed to be passing on – mixing up what he said, most often, and transmitting the messages the wrong way around – to the great amusement of his two companions, both of whom were lying in the grass; giggling at the hilarity. It was a process that was made even more difficult by the fact that, while Rosie said she was six, Tommy was slightly less that three and a half – although very bright for his age – and Denny was nine months Tom's junior, and not quite as bright. As a result, half of what was said and passed on accurately _still_ made next to no sense to anyone but the speaker. Eventually, as far as Rosie's and Denny's giggle fits were concerned, anything and everything that came out of Tommy's mouth was enough to set them off again.

Tom looked between his friends – who were idly lying on their backs on the grass between the stones – for a moment; then dropped down, onto his back, between them. Dennis' hand immediately found Tom's and latched on to it. Tom smiled at this and offered his other hand to Rosie, who took it in her own – although hers felt a bit odd as it lay on top of his, but Tom knew girls were different so it made sense to him. Rosie giggled again, idly tossing a small twig at a passing butterfly. She was humming.

Tom turned to look at her. "What that song?" he asked.

Rosie's eyes widened almost comically. "You do not know it?" she inquired. Tom shook his head. Unnoticed, Dennis began to pout.

Rosie sprang to her feet, waving one hand eagerly in a motion that was clearly meant to encourage Tom to get to his feet – which he did, pulling Dennis up with him.

"It is a game," Rosie said, her tone implying very much that Tom was quite silly for not knowing that much. "Come," she added, extending her hand. "I teach you."

Moments later Tom decided that her grip on her hand was far less comfortable than Denny's had been – but Denny hadn't been able to find and hold on to Rosie's other hand and therefore couldn't play. Instead the younger boy sat nearby, scowling at his laughing friend and invisible playmate as the older pair danced in circles, singing.

"Ring a-ring o' roses,

A pocket full of posies,

'A-tishoo! A-tishoo!'

We all fall down!"

The pair looked at each other, laughed, and started again.

Completely unnoticed, Dennis stormed off to find Mary – trying not to cry from sheer misery at being ignored in favour of someone who he couldn't even see.

* * *

Tommy was in a very bad mood. Mary had been furious with him once Denny had run off crying to her. Not only had he run off, he had been playing among the rocks with writing on them (apparently that was a Bad Thing) and he had made Denny cry. Tommy hadn't wanted Denny to cry – Denny was his friend and his friend shouldn't be upset – but Denny was being stupid about Rosie. Tom thought Dennis was probably acting on the same feeling Tommy sometimes got if Donny or Clarice got the fish paste for lunch and he got the peanut butter (which was always especially upsetting, since neither Donny nor Clarice actually liked fish paste). But if that was what Denny believed than he really must be stupid, in Tom's opinion, because Tom enjoyed grape preserve and boysenberry preserve just as much as fish paste – so he obviously could be friends with Rosie and Denny, if Denny would let him – and he had said as much to Lucy, when she had found him brooding in the corridor (he had slipped out of the bad boys' corner when Mary was reading to the others, since he was banned from story time that day because of bad behaviour).

Lucy, as had happened so many times before, was stunned by the sheer eloquence of the boy's explanation – not to mention the complexity of the thought of actually using his favourite foods, noting the plural, as a point of comparison. At a loss for what else to do, she held him; rocking and shushing him gently, although he was not actually crying or making noises for her to hush.

"Perhaps," she finally murmured, "perhaps if you were only friends with Rosie on Sundays Dennis wouldn't mind so much."

Tom pulled away and stared at her.

Lucy immediately began to explain, with liveliness in her movements and enthusiasm shining in her eyes, "You see, you only play with Rosie on Sundays, don't you?"

Tommy nodded.

"Therefore, if you only mention and play with Rosie on Sundays, and spend the rest of the week with Dennis, he ought not to be irked by it."

Tommy gave her a bright smile and hugged her knees tightly.

"Lucy?" a surprised voice asked from behind her. "What are you doing here?" Lucy turned to face the other woman, somewhat tense and hesitant in her movements; as if expecting a negative reaction. "Mary," she acknowledged; her voice remarkably even – perhaps too even. "I am only stopping by to collect the rest of my things. Then I must go: I have many preparations still to make for tomorrow."

Mary frowned. "Why did you not tell us you were going to take today off? I could have used your assistance with the children and we have fallen behind schedule with the chores."

Lucy stood slowly, untangling herself from Tom with the sort of grace and ease that only comes from practise. "You are going to have to get used to managing them without me," she said.

Mary's eyes narrowed. "So you really will not be working here anymore. I had thought it was just a rumour."'

Lucy pursed her lips as, her own eyes narrowed. "As the wife of a gentleman I will have duties to attend to – I can't ignore them in favour of working here," she replied coldly.

However, it was apparently the last straw for Mary. "You had a duty to _us first_!" she shrieked, infuriated.

"I have the right to live my own life! I DON'T HAVE TO GIVE UP LIVING JUST BECAUSE YOU DID!" Lucy screamed back, nearly matching the screeching tone of her ex-colleague.

"THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN AVOID YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES WHILE YOU STILL WORK HERE!"

Tommy put his hands over his ears as curious faces began to peer out of doors all along the corridor.

"I'M _NOT_ AVOIDING MY RESPONSIBILITIES!" Lucy screamed. "I AM _TRYING_ TO PLAN MY _WEDDING_!"

"THEN DO IT ON YOUR OWN TIME!"

Both women stood for a moment, inhaling and exhaling quickly; the screaming having left them breathless and sore throated.

"Or ask for help," Mary said finally, what she now lacked in volume being made up for in intensity. "Do it on your own time or ask us for help."

Lucy's eyes widened slightly, she could not help but wonder if this was the basis for so much of the vitriol her colleague had unleashed upon her. "If I asked for your help," she said, speaking slowly as she cautiously chose her words, "I would have to invite you to the wedding. The staff can not leave the children alone, so I would have to invite the entire orphanage. Can you imagine how that would look? There would be talk." Lucy's previously well-hidden distress seemed all too visible as she continued, "People would say I was only marrying him for his money, that I was prostituting myself to protect the orphanage."

Mary, who normally would never say anything unkind to anyone, pulled Tom away from her co-worker, in undisguised disgust at what she felt was an incredibly selfish motivation. "You don't have to worry about that," she said, her tone frigid, "they already are." She paused, having turned away from Lucy and started walking Tom back to the nursery, and looked over her shoulder at the dark haired woman. "Only they're not being as kind about your motivations."

That being said, she led Tom back into the nursery and to sit with the other children for the rest of story time – and Tom, who saw no reason to point out that he was _supposed_ to be having quiet time in the bad boys' corner, let her.

* * *

**To Shawna (spruplebirdie):** I suppose the first thing I should do is apologise, since you said you were looking forward to reading more soon and I certainly took my time writing it! I hope, then, it was worth the wait. It's both a relief and a delight to know you like the OCs (I have to admit I'm not exactly fond of stories with large numbers of OCs, myself, which makes it odd that I'm writing one) and the way I've been portraying Tom's youth so far. I hope you enjoy what I do with the rest of the story – especially Tom's fear of death and the background of the OCs – as much as you have enjoyed the chapters I've written so far.


	19. Friends on Sundays: Jun 26  Nov 2, 1930

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Friends on Sundays**

Tom wandered into the infirmary and hopped up onto the bed nearest Doctor Elder's desk. The doctor, in turn, glanced up from the letter she had been reading – which was slightly worn in places from repetitive folding and bore the words _19__th__ of June, 1930_, in the corner – and looked at the boy, unperturbed.

"Hello," Tom said brightly.

Martha blinked. "Are you ill?"

"No," the boy replied, tilting his head to the side in honest innocence.

"Then why are you here?" the doctor inquired pointedly.

This, however, only served to encourage the boy; as he spent the next ten minutes talking – seemingly nonstop – about the toddler's jigsaw puzzle he had assisted Dennis in completing, what he had thought of breakfast that day, what he thought of breakfast on other days, what _Donald _thought of breakfast that day, why Donald was evidently stupid because he preferred milk over juice and – finally reaching the point of what he had started out talking about and which, apparently, all the previous topics somehow related to – how much he had improved in his reading and spelling. The doctor had not been able to interrupt once, since the boy's fast and cheerful babble never seemed to stop.

"…and Mary says I'm very, very good at reading. She doesn't realize I've got help. Rosie's been helping me learn a read." The boy shivered. "It's cold in here," he said, suddenly. "Rosie's cold like this, all the time. I think she's sick. She's got an inj'ry on her face and she coughs all the time."

The doctor gave him a shrewd look. "All the time?"

Tom, slightly embarrassed, shrugged. "When I see her," he added.

"What does she look like?"

Tom gave her an odd look – a cross between amusement and exasperation. "I _told_ you already!" he said.

Doctor Elder arched an elegant eyebrow. "Tell me again," she said.

"She has a big hat and her dress is silver with darker uneven bits," Tom said finally, then paused thoughtfully. "She has a bow in her hair. It's long."

"The bow?"

"Her hair," Tom replied.

The doctor nodded cautiously. "Does she wear dark shoes?"

Tom wrinkled his nose at the odd question, but nodded. "Her dress has a big belt," he added.

"And a high neck?" The doctor pressed.

Tom tilted his head and looked at her in confusion.

Martha pursed her lips for a moment, then raised her hand to her collar bone. "Does the dress end here," she then raised her hand to the top of her neck, "or here?"

"Neither," Tom said firmly.

"Neither?" repeated the doctor, incredulous.

Tom pointed to the top of her neck. "It starts there," he said, as if this was painfully obvious.

"Ah." Martha glanced back down at the letter, her eyes skimming over the final lines and farewell. It had been exactly a week since she had received word from Sergeant Brown, her old friend, suggesting that the coroner, Janvier, would be more likely to have the information she was looking for and praising her logical approach to Tom's unusual descriptions of his friend. She had come to the conclusion that there were two viable explanations for Tom's descriptions – but had only outlined the latter of the two in her letter to Sergeant Brown – the first was that the way science did not seem to apply itself properly around Tom went further and the boy was actually, somehow, conversing with a deceased child; the second was that Tom's friend was truly imaginary, but was based on the girl whose grave, and image, Tom had stumbled upon in the churchyard. The only way to discard the latter theory for certain, however, would be to find a discrepancy in Tom's description – if he described something he could not have known without researching it, only then could she be certain that he wasn't inventing it.

She looked back up at the boy and frowned. "Does Mary know you are here?"

Tom shook his head, still shivering.

"Then you had best return to the nursery," she said. "Especially since you are cold, it is not healthy to remain in an environment where the temperature is causing you physical discomfort." Moments after she said it, though, the cold seemed to dissipate – almost as if someone had been fanning themselves and walked away.

Tom nodded unhappily. "Will you teach me more?" he asked.

"Not today," Martha said. Then, seeing how despondent the boy was at this reply, she smiled slightly.

Tom smiled brightly back at her, then left the infirmary at a run – indubitably to inform Dennis of the unspoken promise.

Doctor Elder shook her head slightly, then folded the letter and put it away. She removed a blue calf-bound logbook from the stack on her desk and opened it, reading over her previous notes for the year.

_30 Mar/morning; unknown/V.G. churchyard/Tom, Rosie?, M.B/invisible friend, rep. graves/p.57_

_13 Apr/8:45pm/Nursery/Tom, D.B., M.B., et al/toys move away from M.B./p.58_

The doctor shook her head and flipped a page further, murmuring to herself under her breath. "What is your substance, whereof are you made," she muttered. "That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade," suddenly she paused in her recitation, turning and looking around the room – and behind her – suspiciously, as if she had become aware of someone nearby; but there was no one there. Martha raised an eyebrow as a faint expression flashed across her face; a combination of certainty that a suspicion had just been confirmed, interest at how it had happened and a faint trace of amusement.

_26 Jun/12:34pm,_ she noted down on the page.

Idly, as she wrote up her notes – and the accompanying analysis on page fifty-seven, with the other notes on 'Rosie', she recited the rest of the sonnet; slightly louder than she had been before, just for the sake of the possibility that the listener remained.

"And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit," here she twirled the Waterman fountain pen thoughtfully between her fingers. "Is poorly imitated after you," she recited, then blew gently on the ink to dry it faster.

"On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set," Martha murmured, leaning back in her chair. "And you in Grecian tires are painted new," she raised her voice slightly again, with an odd lilt in it.

"Speak of the spring and foison of the year," she intoned, flipping to page fifty-seven.

"The one doth shadow of your beauty show," she murmured, her eyes finding the door through which the toddler had disappeared so recently.

"The other as your bounty doth appear," she paused, thoughtfully. "And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part," she recited as she finished writing her notes. Then she looked shrewdly at the door once again, as if watching the boy leave all over again. "But you like none, none you, for constant heart."

Finally, she closed the book. "It's Shakespeare," she addressed the room, "if you were wondering."

There was a rustling sound, almost inaudible, from the Disturbed room.

A odd sort of half-smile, slightly open-mouthed as she had smiled too quickly to shut it after she finished speaking, graced her face and – with an eyebrow raised and her eyes looking upward – it was quite impossible to miss the certainty, her features expressed, that something very important had just occurred.

* * *

Tom, having avoided Dennis successfully for the third week since the failed introduction, held Rosie's hand in an almost impossibly weak grasp.

The pair danced in a circle, laughing joyfully and singing. "Ring a-ring o' roses…"

* * *

It was on July the fourteenth, a Monday, that Mary became alarmed at Dennis' and Tom's increasing disappearing acts. Tom, she knew, would disappear on Sundays after church and play with his invisible friend until it was time to leave. All other disappearing acts usually resulted in the doctor removing him from, or insisting he be removed from, her infirmary. Dennis, on the other hand, was always harder to find; as she was never certain where the boy would run off to when Tom accidentally hurt his feelings.

On the evening of July the fourteenth, that location turned out to be Samantha Cole's lap, where he was mainly being held up by one of her arms, in the drawing room. An open newspaper sat on the table by the chair, with the Matron's reading glasses resting on top of a small article detailing the death, on the eighth of the month, of Sir Joseph Ward; the seventeenth Prime Minister of New Zealand.

"Shhh, shhh," the Matron crooned softly to the sobbing tot.

"T-tommy 'noring me," Dennis mumbled, clinging to the broadly built woman.

"Oh sweetheart, he doesn't mean to," she said.

Mary, standing in the doorway, sighed.

Suddenly, Samantha began to wheeze and she quickly removed the boy from her lap, shortly before she began to cough; her shoulders shaking with the force of it.

Mary's eyes widened. "Samantha, are you well?"

The Matron waved on hand (the one which was not holding her handkerchief to her face) wildly at Mary, trying to tell her to stay away.

Martha, who had walked in behind Mary, spoke suddenly. "Leave it," she said to Mary, her tone clipped.

Mary, after jumping slightly in surprise at the doctor's sudden appearance, hurried over and picked Dennis up, holding him close and murmuring soothing nonsense to him. She and Martha shared a solemn glance, as the doctor knelt before the woman with the hacking cough, and then Mary left the room. The doctor looked back to her patient, one arm holding the older woman's shoulder steady, her expression that of one who is all too well informed.

* * *

Through the fine mist-like rain that fell on the morning of August the third, childish singing could be heard, as two little figures pretended they were swinging each other around. "…a pocket full of posies," the voices chorused.

* * *

Mary Bonner did not like to admit it when she was alarmed, especially not when she thought there was a distinct possibility that she was jumping at shadows the way a child might. She would have liked to have believed that the conversation she had overheard at breakfast the day before – Harold Cole and Martha Elder discussing politics over their respective newspapers and debating the effects of Uriburu's overthrow of the President of Argentina on September the sixth, which had the been the day before that – but was unable to fool herself into believing it. Her problem was far closer to home, but much less down to earth.

She was frightened of Tom. …Perhaps frightened _for_ Tom would be more accurate. At first she hadn't honestly thought that much of his having an imaginary friend, even one who he visited in the cemetery, because he wasn't even four years old yet and, since he was such a bright boy and so much faster to learn that others his age, it was to be expected – in fact, as she understood it, it was a common method for intelligent and, or, lonely children to alleviate boredom. It was healthy, even.

So she had thought nothing of it when Tom began to talk animatedly about his friend Rosie. She had let the matter be for the most part, interrupting Tom's fantasy game only when his enthusiasm for his imaginary friend came between him and his real life – such as the unfortunate disagreements he had with little Dennis Bishop, who struggled to keep up with the older and smarter boy – and assumed that Tom would simply grow out of it in a year or so.

Mary had worried about Tom's disappearing acts, certainly, but never about the game itself until the previous Saturday, when something Tom had told Lucy – who had become accustomed to visiting, and painting with, the children every second Saturday, presuming she and her husband did not decide to do something else – about his friend had caught her attention. The six year old girl he described (whose colouring he swore he could not see, but whom – Tom claimed – had told him she used to have red hair and blue eyes) wore clothing appropriate for a child born in 1895, or thereabouts, who would have just been turning six in 1901. Mary had been worried, but not alarmed by the description, until Tommy had added that 'Rosie' had an injury on the lower left-half of her face; dark and patchy looking for the most part, Tom had said, and the darker parts of her skin flaked.

The alarm had only incited her to act, two days later, when Tom had asked her for the name of the more solid and hard looking pale silver thing that he had seen in the very top of his friend's injury, sticking out from beneath the darker flaked skin.

_Bone._ The very thought was enough to make her feel sick.

So on the eighth of September, about midmorning, she found herself leaving her wards in the care of Eleanor Cole – to whom she had explained the situation and who seemed to be highly sceptical – and taken Tommy to visit Reverend Honeycutt… privately.

The Reverend frowned as he listened to her explanation. He had set about making them each a cup of tea when she had arrived with the baffled toddler, and placed it gently in front of the anxious woman just as she finished her monologue.

Tom, completely unaware of the two concerned glances he received at the end of Mary's explanation, took another biscuit from the plate on the table.

"Tom," Mary said in a warning tone.

Tom, holding the biscuit, looked up sharply. "Please?" he inquired; his tone just on the adorable side of wheedling.

Mary looked to the Reverend for permission to let the boy continue raiding the supply of biscuits and, when the Reverend gave her a small nod and smile, sighed. "Very well," she said, "but leave room for supper."

Tom immediately gave her a brilliant – and very wide – smile and bit into the biscuit he had just filched. His hand came up underneath the biscuit, and his mouth, to catch the crumbs that were falling.

Mary frowned. "And chew with your mouth closed," she added. "You are not an animal."

"You are afraid this… friend, may have some spiritual explanation?" the Reverend asked, quietly.

Mary gave him a weak smile. "It does sound somewhat absurd when it is stated that way, but… yes. I cannot shake the worry that there is something more going on."

Reverend Honeycutt took another long look at the boy; he then took a sip of his tea and looked out the window – in the direction of the cemetery – thoughtfully. "I do not believe," he said finally, "that you need to worry. The mind of the young child works in strange ways. He could easily have seen the likeness of a girl on one of the headstones and the outfit in a book – he may have put the two together without actually realising it and this imaginary friend is the result."

Mary's shoulders slumped with relief and she graced the Reverend with a smile, over the top of her teacup.

* * *

On the fourteenth of September two children laughed and spun each other around among the graves of Vauxhall Grove Church, unaware, as they sang, what the one hundred and seven seats won by the National Socialists, on the continent, that day would later mean for them.

"…A-tishoo! A-tishoo!"

* * *

Eleanor Cole stalked out of the staff room after Doctor Elder, her mind still on the letters and notes she had looked over on the doctor's desk. "Does it not concern you?" she snapped at the physician, who was approximately halfway down the corridor.

Martha continued at a brisk pace, not bothering to look back as she replied, "You are making something out of nothing. An imaginary friend is nothing to be concerned over. If you do not like him playing with her, simply forbid it, little good may it do you."

Eleanor stopped walking, her expression shrewd. The doctor's answers were casually, but definitively, dismissive and, in the opinion of the younger Mrs. Cole, a bit too rehearsed. "What he describes, Martha, it's not normal," she insisted.

The doctor was still walking, calmly but quickly. "I have already given you a perfectly logical explanation for how it is possible. The imagination can work that way."

"Can toys fly without aid?" Eleanor inquired pointedly.

The doctor stopped in her tracks, although she did not turn or make any sort of reply.

"Martha," Eleanor repeated; her tone sharper, louder. "Can toys fly without aid?"

There was a distinct pause.

Finally, Martha spoke, her tone cold, cautious and somewhat tense, "I would have preferred it if you had not read that."

Eleanor, somewhat taken aback by the admission, blinked for a moment. "H-how do you know I did not figure it out for myself?"

A small, bitter smile crossed the doctor's face. "You mentioned that occurrence for effect – you would not have known to do so if you had not read my notes."

"Oh," Eleanor breathed.

Silence reigned in the corridor again, as Martha – looking vaguely in the direction of the floor – nodded (very slightly) to herself twice, as if in confirmation of her thoughts.

"How much did you read?" she murmured, still not turning to look at her companion.

"Everything that was in the blue book," Eleanor replied.

Martha nodded her head slightly again, as if she had expected this answer.

Eleanor paused, then tentatively added, "And the letters you received from the coroner, including all the information he sent to you."

"Ah," Doctor Elder breathed. There was another pause, shorter and seemingly sharper than its predecessors. "Why?"

Eleanor blinked. "Why what?"

"Why did you see fit to invade my privacy?" the doctor asked, sharply. "The last time was a simple error, but this time you actively went looking for that logbook. Why?"

"I was concerned," Eleanor admitted, somewhat abashedly.

Martha gave a small nod at this. "I had not realised that was sufficient excuse," she replied, her tone disturbingly soft and calm.

This seemed to bring out the forcefulness in the younger Mrs. Cole as she looked up and spoke sharply; "As it turned out, I had good reason to be! When were you intending to inform the rest of us of this? Rose Mallory-Baines, age six and a half, born July third eighteen-ninety-five, died December fifth, nineteen-oh-one. Red haired, blue eyed, died in a _fire_."

Martha waited for her colleague to regain her breath after her rather fast speech, then spoke coldly, "In the nursery, also, on a cold winter's evening when her parents were not home and the nanny; asleep."

"Martha!" Eleanor snapped; sounding rather scandalized by the absolute lack of sympathy and concern shown in her colleague's tone.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Nevertheless, she is – as you have said – six and a half and the boy has not come to any harm so far, broken friendships not withstanding. The probability that her intent is malicious is… negligible."

Eleanor shook her head in disbelief. "How can you be so calm about this? How could you not tell us? You have known the truth since late July!"

"The good scientist," Martha intoned, still calm and cold, "observes without interference and _reserves judgement_ until all the facts are known and analysed carefully. There is a scientific explanation for everything, Eleanor, I just need to find it."

"You should have told us," Eleanor hissed, trying not to reveal how flummoxed she actually was.

The doctor finally turned, fixing her companion with a sharp, cold and unblinking gaze. "It is not mine to tell," she said, her tone frigid and decisive; the unspoken command that resided within it quite impossible to miss, "nor is it yours. Good day to you."

Moments later she was ascending the stairs, as if nothing had happened.

* * *

Twelve days into October, two children spun around, laughing, and dropped to the ground; singing as they did, "…We all fall down…"

* * *

On the last Sunday in October, shortly after the church service finished, Tom hurried to turn the corner and visit his friend. A hand came down on his shoulder and held him firmly in place moments before he could disappear from view.

"Tom," Mrs. Cole said sternly.

Tom looked up at her and smiled innocently. "Hello," he chirped.

Eleanor sighed, looking down at the boy she was restraining. "Tom," she repeated. "Come with me." With that, she led him around the corner (safely out of sight) and knelt down in front of him.

"Tom," she said, "about that friend of yours…"

"You don't think Rosie is real," Tom blurted out.

Mrs. Cole frowned at him. "Do not interrupt me, young man, this is important," she said, displeased. Although her expression softened slightly at the hurt look the boy gave her and, reminding herself that she needed to be gentle with the boy or he would not listen, she added, "I am not angry, I'm just concerned."

Tommy frowned at her. "Concerned?" he asked.

"About you, about your friend… Rose," Eleanor said.

Tom blinked at her in confusion.

"Tom: you cannot play with her anymore," she told him.

"Why?" Tom exclaimed.

Eleanor sat back, trying to find a way to explain to the toddler why he could no longer play with his friend. "Tom, she…" Eleanor began, then trailed off. "There is something wrong with her, Tom, it isn't safe for you to see her anymore," she said, hoping the little boy would accept the answer.

He didn't. "You mean her inj'ry? Is she ill?" he asked sharply.

Eleanor clutched his arms, feeling rather helpless and lost for a reply. "It is related," she said slowly. The she gave him a very stern look. "Tom, you must promise me that you won't visit her anymore. I shall take you to say goodbye, but you must promise me you won't go back there again. Promise."

Tom, slowly, nodded. "Pr'mise," he mumbled, staring at the ground in misery.

Recognising this for what it was, Eleanor stood and allowed Tom to lead her to the part of the cemetery where he usually found his friend.

Upon catching sight of him, Rosie stood and rushed over to him; stopping just behind the first of the headstones. Her brilliant smile fell the moment she saw his blank face (which did nothing to deny his misery).

"Tommy?" she asked. "What is it?"

"I'm not allowed to play with you anymore," Tom said, bluntly, his entire little body shaking from the sheer effort of trying not to cry. As he turned away from his friend he spoke again, his voice thick with the same apologetic bitterness and regret that was clearly visible on his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Eleanor gently placed an arm around his small, hunched, shoulders and led him away – leaving the unseen little girl staring in shock, behind them.

* * *

In the old churchyard the clock struck twelve – signalling the start of All Soul's Day – and beneath the sound of the rain as it fell and the clock as it tolled, the whisper of a lone child's voice, singing, could be heard "…we all fall down."

The little girl sat on her grave, swinging her legs despondently.

"We all… fall…"

She scowled.

"…down."

* * *

**To Shawna (spurplebirdie):** There's also no need to thank me for the shout-out. It would be inexcusably rude of me to note respond when someone takes the time to review my work – especially when they are an intelligent conversationalist. Considering how much trouble I had writing chapter eighteen, I have to say I was truly relieved to know you thought so highly of it. I have to say, I nearly choked on my drink when I saw your observation about Rosie: I hadn't expected anyone to pick up on that so fast! I guess I'm either not as subtle as I thought I was or I'm not giving my readers enough credit. Needless to say, this chapter probably answers most of the question of when Tom's going to figure out that Rosie's not among the living, but technically he hasn't figured it out yet. He's still just a three year old; he's not going to be able to understand 'ghost' until he understands 'dead', so Tom truly understanding what Rosie is will still be a while yet. It's also wonderful to know that the purposeful repetition of the gossip in the argument was picked up on clearly. As for Lucy? The reason she gave was completely truthful – not necessarily the complete truth, but completely truthful nonetheless. Lucy is a very good natured and sweet woman, but she's also very concerned about her image and about people liking her – and, especially in those days; although it was beginning to trail off by the thirties, the upper classes were still very quick to point it out when one of them married or spent time with "the wrong sort of girl". Lucy is middle class – and a flapper on top of that – and marrying into the upper class, talk (like that of the gossiping girls and the sentiments Mary expressed) is bound to happen… and no one wants to be called a gold-digger, even if it isn't to their face.


	20. So the Innkeeper: 30311230 and 1131

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: So the Innkeeper…**

Tommy Riddle was fascinated.

He had been told that he was turning four the next day (Tom was of the understanding that this was important, but did not know why he always had to be the last person in the orphanage to have a 'birthday' let alone why he had to share it with something called 'New Years' Eve') but that wasn't what had caught his interest and left him haphazardly holding his forgotten green beans, on his annoying fork, in his left hand (the orphanage rule was that the younger you were the earlier you got to eat) at dinner, that night. It was what one of the boys on 'serving duty' (which, Tom was informed, he did not have to be 'concerned' about until he was actually _taller_ than the big people's tables) had done.

The boys had finished serving to the children (themselves excluded and under the watchful eye of Simon Hughes, the orphanage cook, who thought the 'poor children' deserved the enjoyment – and lower percentage of spilled food – of having their food brought to them instead of waiting to fill their own trays) and had been in the process of setting out the staff's dinners, when Dr. Elder had hurried into the dining hall and the dark boy in question had turned, stepping away from the cart of drinks, to place a glass of juice on the table and crashed directly into her.

The fifteen year old boy, who had stumbled backward from the force of the impact, stood – gaping – at the composed and stiffly standing doctor, while still holding the offending glass in his hand. The doctor stood with her head held high, her face impassive and her eyes closed, even though her nice white skirt and blouse had turned a rather unlikable shade of pastel orange as they damply clung to her body – and especially her bodice – more tightly than usual.

Tom watched in fascination as a droplet of juice rolled off the doctor's nose and landed on her orange blouse. The, rather sodden, fifteen year old's eyes also followed the droplet to its final resting place, although his dark eyes seemed to glitter with mischief as he took in the sight before him, while the other boys on serving duty that night traded amused – and somewhat conspiratory – glances.

Finally, after a long and tense silence, Doctor Elder calmly opened her eyes. Although the boy had moved while her eyes had been closed, they unerringly found him before, it seemed, her eyes had even opened; for they were locked on his when she did.

"I would tell you to watch where you are going next time, nigger," she said evenly, "if I did not know you got exactly what you wanted." As she removed the glass, which still contained a quarter of its original juice content, from his shock-slacked hand, she continued somewhat pleasantly, "Therefore I shall simply assume that you will meet me in the infirmary, after you have finished your chores and tidied up this… mess, to scrub the bedpans in my stead."

Somewhat amazed by the composedness of her reaction, and therefore not quite able to stop himself, the dark boy blurted out: "I will if you'll be wearing that!"

Still apparently unperturbed, the doctor arched an elegant eyebrow. "Indeed," she murmured as she raised the glass to her lips – almost giving the impression of a tiny toast to the boy in one moment as the glass bobbed slightly in her hand – to take a sip which was only just not quick enough to disguise the slight twitch of the corner of her mouth.

The doctor turned and began to walk back to the door whence she came, only ceasing to look straight ahead for one moment – in which she glanced to the Matron for approval, which she received – then, once she was looking straight ahead once more, spoke. "And, nigger? Do inform your co-conspirators that they will be spending the evening sorting and washing the laundry, once the have completed their other chores."

Tom, now bored with the activity, took a sip of his own drink.

"We didn't do anything!" one of the other boys on serving duty exclaimed.

"Precisely," the doctor replied and walked out the door.

Behind them, Simon Hughes sniggered. It was probably his idea.

* * *

It was well past the time when the little ones were sent to bed that Oliver, having finally completed his other chores and cleaned himself up somewhat, stumbled through the infirmary door.

Doctor Elder, not looking up from the book she was writing in, spoke without inflection, "I am certain you already know where the bedpans are, nigger. Get to work."

The fifteen year old boy did not move, but rather gave her a look which was both challenging and appraising at once. "You don't normally call me that," he said.

"Indeed not," replied the doctor. "Normally I call you 'boy' but you are just as much as boy as you are a nigger."

There was a moment's silence as the boy stared at her with wide eyes, taking in the frank sincerity on her, normally blank, face. "Oh," he said.

Simon Hughes opened the infirmary door and stuck his head in. "Doctor, have you seen Jonathan?"

"Most likely he is in his classroom," she replied evenly, "with the gin."

Simon's eyes widened and he blinked at her for a moment, as he was well aware that the doctor was not inclined to unlock the alcohol cupboard without sufficient reason to believe it would be beneficial to the health of the person making the request.

"Thank you," he said, then nodded farewell to each of the room's occupants, murmuring "Oliver, Doctor," as he did so, and left.

The moment the door had closed completely, Oliver spoke. "I'm sorry," he said softly and turned, dejected, to the bedpans.

"I know, boy," Martha murmured in reply. "I know."

* * *

Simon, having doubled back to check that Jonathan was not hiding in the nursery (as he had been known to seek out Mary when he had emotional problems) and finding only sleeping toddlers – of whom one, little Tommy, was shivering slightly in his sleep and who Simon therefore fetched another blanket for – and assuming Mary would return, made his way to Jonathan Stone's classroom and let himself in.

The attic classroom was lit by moonlight and Simon, who (being the orphanage cook) had not ventured into the attic for several years, was surprised to see the light reflect off the glittering decorations which hung from the slanted ceiling. Simon had known, intellectually speaking, that Jonathan had agreed to let Lucy's art students (which consisted of the majority of the orphans above the age of nine and who met in Jonathan's classroom most second Saturdays) hang their work in his classroom, but it was still a surprise to see it as Simon was quite aware that Jonathan had never been inclined to allow meaningless frivolity into his territory. Above the cook's head bottle caps, glass beads and odd balls of tin foil twirled as the strings that held them up turned in the slight breeze. That was when Simon realised that the window was open. Simon, frowning, walked quickly behind the two areas of set out desks (past the boys' desks on the left half of the room, the girls' on the right and the walking space between them) and closed the window.

"Simon?" a quiet voice called from behind him.

The man in question turned, surprised, to look at the front of the room. There, sitting on his desk, was Jonathan Stone; clutching a mostly empty bottle of gin in one hand and an apple in the other. When Simon saw that the bottle contained less than a quarter of its original content, his eyes widened.

Jonathan obviously noticed this, because he spoke. "Don't look so alarmed. Doctor Elder's diluted it so much it's barely worth drinking."

Simon watched him silently, at a loss for what to say.

Jonathan took another swig from the bottle. Then he tipped it in the direction of the decorations hanging from the ceiling. "They were Lucy's idea, you know. I didn't want them in the way, originally. But the students, the students loved them. The students loved _her_."

"…Jonathan, what caused this?"

Looking over his brows – barely tilting upward his bowed head – Jonathan favoured his friend with a humourless smile. "I made a mistake," he replied. Then he took another swig from the bottle. "You know, she loved the children. But she couldn't invite them to the wedding, because then she would have had to invite the staff."

Simon frowned at his friend. "Jonathan, I think you might be a little confused, you see–"

But whatever he had been about to say was never precisely known as Jonathan began to speak, loudly. "I still cannot tell for certain, did you know that? It isn't that I wanted to see her marry some other man, or that I appreciate the way she avoided having me there, but I still cannot tell for certain whether she did it as an act of _kindness_ or a symbolic final slap to the face!"

There was a disturbingly, and paradoxically, loud silence after that exclamation as Simon stared at his friend and Jonathan at his bottle. The room suddenly grew darker and Simon, surprised, turned to stare out the window. The moon, he quickly realised, was being blocked by a number of thick clouds. Behind him Jonathan began to murmur, his voice lilting oddly; as if he were recalling some old tune.

"One and one is two, two and two is four, four and four is eight, eight and eight is sixteen, sixteen and sixteen," he recited and suddenly all traces of drunkenness were gone from the schoolmaster's voice as he looked up sharply and, somehow very knowingly, directly into his friends eyes (reflected in the window) to finish the line, "is thirty-two."

Once again there was a pause, as the two men stared at each other. Finally, Jonathan broke the silence. "Lucy came to me today, talking about how brilliant one of the very young ones was. Tim Riddle, I think she said. Something of that sort, anyway. She said that she thought it would be a shame for such a brilliant young mind to go to waste and that she and Sir Blackwood would be happy – once she mentioned it to him – to pay for and organise the boy's schooling at a better primary school," his tone was calm – perhaps too calm – as he spoke, just as simple and matter-of-fact as it would have been if he had been teaching class. "I told her that it was unnecessary and that Helen Hackett and I were perfectly capable of educating an unusually bright child. She won't repeat the offer and I shan't – I can't – ask her to consider my previous statement null and void. The boy could have gone to the very best of schools. He could have gone to Oxford eventually. But he won't, because I let my pride get in the way." Jonathan looked down – staring at the open bottle of gin and the apple he held in his hands – for a long moment. "Simon," he finally asked, his voice cracking terribly, "why don't I teach my students anything useful?"

Jonathan then, without waiting for an answer, drank once again from the bottle – which was nearly empty – and jumped off the desk, leaving the bottle on the desk as he hurried (apple in hand) to the blackboard in an unexpected flurry of activity. "What I teach them," he said as he grabbed the chalk in his right hand (the left still had a death grip on the dark red apple), "is pure tosh! It is rubbish!"

Watched by his bemused colleague, Jonathan began to write on the blackboard; speaking aloud each word that he wrote.

"The…cat…is…in…the…house!" Suddenly he turned, one arm still poised; his hand holding the chalk in place at the end of 'house', and spoke directly to Simon – or perhaps to some invisible class, for the cook stood among the desks – in a sort of exhilarated frenzy, "Parse the sentence!"

"Noun!" he exclaimed, circling the word 'cat'. Then, in a sudden, sharp move, he underlined it. "Subject!" he stated; his expressions and tone both exaggerated and fierce.

"OBJECT!" Jonathan crowed, circling the word 'house'. "_The cat_," he reiterated, "is in _the house_!" Then, just as suddenly, he was writing on the blackboard again. "Feles in casa est!" Jonathan paused for a moment, then began circling words and adding identifying words to them. "Feles: nominative singular! Casa takes the ablative!"

"Jonathan," Simon barked, alarmed.

The schoolmaster turned back to his friend, a miserable and lost expression gracing his sharp features. "What's the point?" he asked bitterly. Biting viciously into the apple and tearing a piece from it – not at all disturbed by the violence with which he chewed – Jonathan turned his attention back to the blackboard.

As he swallowed the, uncomfortably large, piece of apple, he continued to write. "Puer…amat…puellam. …Sed….puella…non vult…amor…pueri," he said, pronouncing each word as he wrote. Then he stepped backward, away from the blackboard and, staring at it in disgust, asked "Cur facio de te curo?" and lowered the hand which held the chalk. "What is the point?" he repeated, sounding lost. "Tu aratiuncula es." Without warning he flung the chalk to the floor with so much force that it snapped sharply in half as he exclaimed, "Proseda!"

For a few, long, moments the only sound was the schoolmaster's heavy breathing. There was almost perfect silence. Then the scream of a young child pierced the air, ruining the moment. It wasn't actually an unusual occurrence – the number of children who had, at any given point, recently arrived in the wake of some tragedy or come from unfortunate circumstances practically guaranteed that nightmares were an almost nightly occurrence – but it was enough to make Simon, his eyes wide, give his inebriated friend one last glance and hurry from the room.

Jonathan watched him go, then – his face blank – wandered over to the very centre of the room. The schoolmaster sighed and looked, rather hopelessly, around his empty classroom. His tone oddly broken, and distinctly sober, he asked no one in particular, "One and one is two, isn't it?"

Jonathan Stone took a bite of his apple and looked up, watching as the moonlight reflected off the glittering model solar system the hung above him. Someone else could worry about the child.

* * *

Eleanor and Samantha, who had been discussing the possible places they could take the children for the next summer outing (not only would they probably need to save for it, they always tried to plan ahead) and what was financially feasible, looked up in surprise when a child's scream pierced the air. This was followed by two – relatively – quieter thuds and a crash. Moments later the sound of heavy footfalls – someone running, most likely – and irritated children began to echo through the halls. The two Mrs. Coles glanced at each other, then stood and hurried toward the source of the ruckus. However, the younger of the two Mrs. Coles was faster and when she was coming to a halt in front of the nursery, the elder was only just coming off the stairs; wheezing loudly and looking quite exhausted as she did.

Samantha, still wheezing, began to hurry down the corridor.

A hand lashed out of the infirmary and yanked her toward the door, effectively stopping her in her tracks. The startled matron found herself quite unable to remove her writs from the cold, furious grip of the doctor who towered over her.

"Tell me, you _ignoramus_," Doctor Elder coldly inquired, "are you so much of an underdeveloped dullard that you _forgot_ that I forbade you from running, or did you make such an asinine decision because you actually _wan__**t**_ to _die_?"

Eleanor stared at the two older women as they stood for a moment, almost silent.

The doctor used her free hand to push the infirmary door further open and tugged the Matron toward it with the other. "Get in," she spat.

Samantha, for her part, managed to wheeze out "the children!" in protest and concern just before she was forcibly pulled into the room.

Although the doctor could no longer be seen, her commanding tone echoed through the corridor. "Nigger, you just became a nanny. Go!"

When Eleanor heard Oliver's cheerful and amused reply of "Yes Ma'am!" she entered the nursery.

Beyond the shut door was chaos.

Simon, the cook, was attempting to convince Donald and Clarice to go back to sleep. Mary, on the other hand, was somewhat desperately rocking little Annie and stroking her red curls, while the one year old herself wailed. Little Tom Riddle sat stiff and upright in his cot, clearly quite forgotten, staring wide-eyed at the wall and ever so slightly shaking. Two books appeared to have been thrown from their shelf and onto the floor near the wall – the same wall, Eleanor noted, that Tom was staring at – and the trick box in which Mary kept the toddlers' small personal property was laying, open, on the floor by the foot of Tom's cot; and at an odd angle, with it's content scattered across the nursery floor. Eleanor decided that the two books and the box were the cause of the two thumps and the crash she had heard earlier and, had she been the kind of person to do something as crass as gamble, she would have been willing to bet that Tom had been the one who screamed. He had probably had a nightmare. Unfortunately, she was not at all certain how to comfort such a young frightened child.

"Shall I take care of the boy or the mess?" a soft, and oddly jovial, voice murmured behind her.

Twisting around quickly, Eleanor found herself face to face with Oliver Richardson, who was, she suddenly realised, indubitably the person she had heard Martha send to help; as he had been doing chores in the infirmary for his highly inappropriate comment. With a sharp nod in the direction of the shaken boy, Eleanor moved into the room and began to collect the scattered items.

Oliver, unwilling to frighten the boy more by trying to pick him up, leaned over the boy's cot and began talking to him; his tone soft and friendly. Eleanor, for her part, began to collect the fallen items. Her eyes narrowed in disgust as she picked up the strange old stick that Tom's mother had left for him – for him being a terribly loose term in that case, as apart from her tattered dress and shawl the woman had nothing else on her when she arrived and had never actually stated that the boy should have it. There had simply been nothing else to give him. Eleanor turned it slowly in her hand as she moved to put it on the counter so she could collect the rest of the fallen items. Her father, whose death when she was ten had resulted in her arrival at Vauxhall Road Orphanage, had been a carpenter and had always enjoyed showing her different types of wood. She recognised the stick as being made of willow wood, which was almost as odd as the strange white thread poking out of it at the smaller end.

Quite without warning, Tom burst into tears. Eleanor spun around and, for a moment, glowered at the shocked young man who stood by Tom's cot; all the while wondering what he had done wrong.

"Shhh," Oliver said, trying to soothe the boy. "Shh, little man. What is the matter with you? Shhh…"

Concerned, both Eleanor and Mary took a step toward the sobbing child whose outburst, completely by accident, had actually startled baby Annie so much that she had ceased her own sobbing.

This, however, only seemed to make matters worse, as – upon seeing one of the women move toward him – Tom's shaking and sobs increased in intensity. "I-I want Martha," the boy insisted, although the sobbing made it sound almost as if he had said he wanted 'mother'. "I want Martha!"

Oliver, without really thinking, lifted the boy and cradled him in his arms.

"Tha," Tom repeated pitifully, "want Tha."

Oliver glanced at Mary and, having received a nod of approval, swiftly left for the infirmary.

An awkward silence filled the room as the two women stared at each other.

"…Perhaps he is ill," Eleanor suggested.

Mary appeared to be decidedly uncomfortable. "He said there was a lady in the room," she reluctantly admitted. Then, as if to counteract her previous statement, she added, "He must have had a nightmare."

Eleanor's eyes narrowed.

Unnoticed, Dennis hurried out the door.

* * *

Neither Samantha nor Martha could quite contain their surprise when Oliver entered the infirmary with a sobbing toddler in his arms.

Tom, who was still crying although he had ceased to sob and wail, buried his face in Oliver's shoulder. "C-cold," he mumbled. "It's c-cold."

Martha immediately walked across the room to Oliver and, after plucking the shaken tot from his arms, began checking Tom for signs of illness. She quickly ascertained that there were no obvious signs thereof and, consequently, placed the boy beneath the covers of the bed closest to the infirmary's fireplace – right next to her desk.

Samantha frowned at the doctor, her concern for the child visible on her face. "Martha?" she murmured.

Martha, however, did not take her eyes off the toddler (who, apparently, was comforted by her attention) when she replied. "There is very little I can do for you, Matron, if you continue to insist upon behaving as if you are a simpleton. For the moment, nevertheless, I suggest you find a way to warm yourself and go to bed."

Samantha, after a moment's hesitation, nodded and slowly walked out of the room. She was, in fact, so lost in her thoughts as she left that she failed to notice Dennis Bishop slipping past her and into the infirmary.

Tommy, who had watched the matron leave, frowned. "Is she ill?" he asked curiously.

Doctor Elder raised an elegant eyebrow. "Oh, come now, Maas, you know I cannot answer that."

Tom's face twisted slightly, expressing his confusion. "Why?"

"Medical confidentiality," the doctor replied. "Now, would you care to explain why you had to be carried in here in the middle of the night?"

"I can't," Tom replied, apparently distracted from his own terror by the conversation.

"And why not?" Martha inquired, raising a hand to forestall Oliver's attempt to explain.

"Medical confidentiality," Tom replied.

The doctor snorted.

Oliver bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

"Maas," Martha said, now clearly amused. "Patients have medical privacy with their doctors, never from them."

"Oh," Tom said.

Dennis walked over and pulled himself onto the bed. Tom blinked at him.

The three year and three month old boy gave his companion a solemn, regretful look. "I'm sorry, Tommy," he said.

Tom tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"No Rosie," Dennis extrapolated. "No Denny, no Rosie: Tommy alone. I don't want you to be lone-y, Tommy." Then – having somehow correctly interpreted the surprise, disbelief, hope and delight expressed mainly in Tom's eyes – Dennis leaned over and hugged his friend. "Good night!" the younger boy chirped, as he slid off the bed and hurried out of the room.

Oliver blinked. "Pardon, but: what just happened?"

"The mating dance of the lesser known Toddler Terrorum," the doctor replied drily.

The young man and the doctor glanced sideways at each other, both clearly amused. Tom blinked at them, before giving a nearby wall a wary look.

Martha sighed and sat down on the bed. "Now," she said, although it was a question only in sentence structure, "do you want to tell me what happened?"

Tom looked up at her warily for a few moments. "It was cold," he finally said.

The doctor's eyes narrowed, almost seeming to pin the boy in place with the piercing gaze she fixed on him.

"I woke up," Tommy began, uncomfortably. "There was a lady."

"A …lady?"

"Leaning over my bed," the toddler insisted. "I woke up because it was cold and I…"

"Screamed," the doctor put in.

Tom nodded, still more embarrassed than he would have cared to admit. Nevertheless, he picked up the story where he had left off. "…when I saw the ugly lady leaning over me."

Oliver frowned, quite aware that the boy was evidently leaving something out. "So how did the two books and the box fall on the floor?"

"They flew," Tom replied, his matter-of-fact tone the same as that of every child who had ever lived and, at the time of explaining something, had yet to grasp minor concepts such as gravity.

"…Flew?" Oliver repeated in disbelief.

Tommy nodded. "They flew of the shelf and chased her out of the room!"

Martha put a calming hand on the excitable boy's arm. "What did she look like, Maas?"

Tom shrugged. "She was ugly."

Martha paused momentarily, her lips pursed, then her expression cleared and she spoke. "And?"

Tom frowned in thought. "I was scared," he said in explanation. "…she had a drippy throat," he said finally. Then the frightened expression he had previously worn returned and he leaned closer to the doctor. "She looks like Rosie," he said quietly. "She scares me."

"You may stay the night," the doctor said, moving straight to the point she was certain the boy was trying to reach.

Tom, although relieved, still appeared concerned. Finally, after several long moments, he voiced his thoughts. "What if she comes back while I'm asleep?"

"She won't," Oliver promised instantly.

Martha looked at the little boy with a surprisingly soft expression gracing her features. "You won't need to worry, Maas, I shall stay with you."

"All night?" the boy asked.

"All night," Martha confirmed.

Oliver gently put a hand on the doctor's shoulder, not particularly bothered by impropriety since he was already in trouble for his previous behaviour. "Shall I bring us up a pot of tea, Doctor?"

Martha half turned to look up at the young man. "That would be… that would be delightful, thank you, Oliver."

Oliver chuckled.

"What?"

"You used my name," Oliver said. "You actually used my name."

The doctor's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "So I did," she murmured.

* * *

On his birthday, Tom was woken by an argument.

"…and would you could give me the respect I've earned by paying attention, Martha, since I am _trying_ to say something _important_!"

"Oh do be considerate, Eleanor, she looks as if she has not slept in a week," Mary interjected.

"My patients," Martha murmured drily, "are trying to sleep."

"Dear," Mary said, "you still haven't told us what the matter with Tommy is. Is he ill?"

"He had… a nightmare," Martha bit out.

Mary blinked. "Then why did he stay here?" she asked, concerned. "Did you give him something to help him sleep?"

Martha – who had been leaning on her desk and had her face in her hands, from sheer exhaustion – made an indignant noise as her head snapped upward so that she could deliver to the nursery caretaker a powerful glare. In the same moment, she snapped, "I wasn't going to give him something to help him sleep just so you could wake him up again and put him in the right bed!"

"He should not have needed you for a nightmare in the first place!" Mary cried.

Tom blinked blearily at them. He supposed that Mary was upset because he liked Martha better, but he couldn't fathom why; nor was he particularly inclined, at that moment, to attempt to make sense of it.

The doctor did not reply.

After a few moments of silence, Tom saw Mary take a few, short, stumbling steps backward.

"Very well, very well then, keep your secrets. Books do not fly from shelves on their own accord! And you, Eleanor! I never would have believed you to be a liar. Yet as you cajole _her_ for information, you refuse to impart any to me!" Mary paused for a moment, before speaking again, her tone softer; more bitter, perhaps even somewhat broken; "In God's name, Martha, I hope you know what you're doing."

To Tom's surprise, she then walked past the ugly lady in the doorway, and out of the room. For several long moments, there was silence between the two remaining women.

Finally, Eleanor spoke, all traces of anger and frustration gone from her tone. "You're making me a liar, Martha. I think I deserve to know why I am being made a liar."

"Whether you inform her or not, is your decision," Martha replied, her voice equally quiet, "but we both know she will overreact."

"Is it overreacting?" Eleanor asked. "Is it really? The boy threw those books from the shelf, we don't know why and we don't know how – but we know that he did."

Martha's voice and posture took on a warning tone. "You are making assumptions."

Eleanor spun around to face her colleague, once again frustrated and angered because of it. "What if he's _dangerous,_ Martha? If those books had flown just a little bit further they would have hit Dennis and Donald on the head! If _this_ was an _accident_, what happens when he becomes _angry_?"

Martha sprung from her chair, slamming her palms down, hard, on her desk. "_So _the _innkeeper is_ he _treats _hi_s_ _guests!_" she spat; her voice not only loud, but also with an oddly sing-song tone to it.

Eleanor, stunned by the usually imperturbable doctor's outburst, took a step backward. Thoroughly shaken, she spoke, "At the very least, answer my question pertaining to the other matter of which we spoke."

"It has been requested that I keep to myself that information, for the time being," the doctor replied.

"Martha..." Eleanor began.

"I can't tell you what you want to know," the doctor, more than slightly irked, replied; every word sounding as if it had been ripped forcibly from her.

"Can't or won't?" Eleanor asked.

"Shan't," said Martha.

Eleanor's mouth twisted in displeasure. "Then I suppose I shall have to ask Samantha," she said.

"Tha?" Tom asked the moment Eleanor had left the room.

Doctor Elder turned to face him, dark lines plainly visible beneath her eyes. "Good morning, Tom," she said. "Happy Birthday."

* * *

Tom watched the ugly lady leave the room, peering out over the tops of his cards as he did. Outside the dimly lit infirmary, bells rang in the New Year.

"Are you following so far, Tom?" Oliver asked gently.

Tom dug five crisps out of his bowl of Smith's Potato Crisps and placed them firmly in the middle of the table. "Raise you three," he said bluntly.

Behind her cards, both of Martha's eyebrows rose.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm sorry this has taken me so long: university's apparently determined to kill me. I'd like to draw your attention to Arileli's account of deviantart (arileli deviantart com) – to my amazement, the reader in question made a beautiful piece of fanart called Ring-a-Ring o'Roses which is for chapter nineteen.

**On the Latin:** I've studied Latin at university, but I haven't had the time to look at it for the last six months, so I might be a little rusty.

Feles in casa est. The cat is in the house.

Puer amat puellam. The boy loves the girl.

Sed puella non vult amor pueri. But the girl does not want the boy's love.

Cur facio de te curo? Why do I care about you ?

Tu aratiuncula es. You are a cunt.

Proseda ! Prostitute !

* * *

**To Republic-Of-Heaven:** If you've reached this point, which I hope you have, I appreciate your opinion of the beginning and hope that the rest has also been as enjoyable.

**To Shawna:** As strange as it sounds, hearing that the last chapter gave you shivers makes me very happy. *laughs* You know, they probably would have reacted better if they had heard of Casper. Pity it's anachronistic.

I know, it's amazing how many people simply fail to think about it or suddenly drop what little they do seem to know in randomly, as if World War Two started randomly one day with absolutely nothing leading up to it.


	21. Fire: January 4th, 1931 errors fixed

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

_**A/N:**_ Upon my seventh re-reading of the finished chapter (I've been making notes to be used at a later date) I discovered a spelling error I had missed. As a result, I have re-posted the chapter - my apologies to you all both for the error and any false hopes that this was a second update.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: Fire**

Martha Elder lifted the old paraffin lamp from her desk, holding it in her left hand as she opened the infirmary curtains with her right. The dawn light had not yet begun to illuminate the sky. A dark expression crossed the doctor's face as she turned from the window and walked quietly toward the infirmary door. The black fabric of her dress swished as she disappeared around the corner.

The corridor, briefly illuminated by her passing, began to return to blackness as descended the stairs. In the infirmary, several papers rustled on her desk – as if moved by the wind created when someone passed by swiftly.

Martha, unaware of this, continued down the stairs until she reached the ground floor. She then continued along the dark corridor and through the dining hall, until she reached the kitchen. She paused in the doorway, somewhat cautiously, then entered and began searching through the cupboards. When she finally came across what she had been searching for she pulled it out, her eyes narrowed.

"This is new," a voice commented from the doorway behind her. "Excluding the orange juice, it must be at least a year since you wore anything other than white."

Her face impassive, the doctor turned to look at the orphanage cook, who was leaning against the door frame.

With a rather odd chuckle, Simon shook his head. "Yet every year, just a few days before your birthday, you suddenly start wearing black – and give no explanation for it – although, now that I think about it, I do believe you randomly start wearing black twice each year."

The doctor lifted an eyebrow. "I had not realised that my choice in clothing was of such fascination to you," she said impassively. Then she lifted the item for which she had searched the cupboards. "I told you that I did not want this, yet you insist upon wasting our resources."

Simon sighed, momentarily resting his forehead against the inside of his left arm – which he was using to balance himself against the door frame. When he looked up, he was frowning. "Does the idea of my making you something special for your birthday really upset you that much?"

Martha shook the box she held in her left hand. "De Ruijter's Rose en Witte Muisjes? Beschuit and Speculaas – Simon these are _imported_. They're _expensive_. They are frivolities and we cannot afford them."

Simon shrugged, rather downcast, but still managed to put a hopeful tone to his otherwise morose comment. "It could be worse, Martha. I could have tried to make you apple-flippers for your birthday as I did last year."

Despite her displeasure, Martha felt herself beginning to smile in a sort of exasperated amusement. "Appel_flappen_ is a traditional dish for _New Years Eve_," she said. Then she set about opening the tin of Beschuit.

"Martha!" cried the cook, aghast. "Yer birthday isn't for another two days!"

Martha looked at him, the look in her eyes surprisingly open. "It would mean more to me to have them today," she murmured.

Rather taken aback by the quiet display of emotion – something the frigid doctor usually preferred to go without – Simon merely nodded.

"To have what?" a young voice asked.

Both adults turned to look behind Simon. Tom Riddle – half asleep and clutching his toy monkey – was standing in the dining hall, with the ever present Dennis Bishop rubbing his eyes not two steps behind him.

To Simon's surprise, Martha made no attempt to scold, sneer at, glower at or generally express displeasure at the boys' presence. Instead she merely raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Have you never been told that it is rude to interrupt a private conversation?" she asked.

"Yes," began Tom, as he dropped to the ground, crawled between Simon's legs and wandered over to the counter where Martha stood, "to have what?"

Dennis hurried after him.

Martha looked at the two boys impassively for a moment, then lifted them both onto the counter – one at a time and only after she had put down the box of Muisjes and the tin of Beschuit – and walked over to get out three plates.

Simon stared at her as she buttered three Beschuit biscuits and poured Muisjes on them, handing the first two – on plates – to the toddlers before taking the third for herself.

"Doesn't anyone wait for breakfast around here anymore?" he asked.

Martha raised an eyebrow – a move which was quickly becoming irksome to the cook – while holding her Beschuitje, one bite taken out of it, in front of her mouth. The toddlers, one the other hand, had both finished their own – they had, in fact, wolfed them down once they had decided that the odd appearance of the food was nothing to be concerned about because it clearly wasn't vegetable.

Glancing momentarily at the toddlers, who were already whinging for more, the doctor tried not to smirk. "Apparently not," she replied. She then took another bite of her Beschuit met Muisjes, a pleasure and amusement clear in her eyes as many of the little pink and little white balls fell and began to roll across the floor – joining those that had fallen from Tom and Dennis' Beschuitjes. Once she had finished her own, she prepared two more for the tots and gave the food to them, gently running her hand through Tom's dark locks a moment later.

"Martha," Simon said, concerned, "those must be pure sugar."

"Sugared aniseed," she replied in agreement. "Dutch children love them."

Tom suddenly noticed that the doctor had not taken a second Beschuitje met Muisjes for herself and held out his half-eaten, and therefore crescent shaped, biscuit in front of her face.

Martha smiled and gently pushed his arm away. "No, thank you, Maas," she said softly. "You enjoy it, I can make myself another."

Tom accepted this and continued to enjoy his treat, making certain to 'feed' some to his monkey as he did.

Simon watched the odd scene in bafflement and surprise – bafflement and surprise which were shared by the two Mrs. Coles when he regaled them with the tale of the incident over breakfast that day. It was not, however, until several hours later – after the service at the church had finished – that either of them spoke further of it.

* * *

Eleanor glanced at the unhappy tot standing by the rosebushes and shook her head. Samantha, who had been speaking with the Reverend, frowned at her and glanced at the boy.

The younger Mrs. Cole, noting the elder's scrutiny, shook her head again. "She spoils him," Eleanor explained, "and then he becomes irksome when she is not there to do so and he is treated like all the others."

Samantha looked at her, a grave expression on her face. "There is quite a bit more to it than just that, dear."

Eleanor glanced at her mother-in-law, surprised. "Such as?"

Samantha frowned. "Dear, you did forbid him from playing with his little friend here," she said. Then, quite suddenly, she reached out and grasped Eleanor's arm for balance.

"Samantha?" Eleanor asked, concerned.

Samantha smiled bleakly, still grasping her colleague's arm. "I am afraid I seem to have become a tad dizzy, dear, but not to worry; I am certain I shall be fine if I have a sit down for a moment to catch my breath."

Eleanor frowned, well aware that being "a tad dizzy" neither caused shortness of breath nor the blue tinge to the face which had developed on Samantha's.

Reverend Honeycutt, who had been quiet and pensive since Eleanor's outburst, helped the Matron over to the old benches outside the church's front door. Upon taking a quick glance at Eleanor's expression, however, he frowned. "Perhaps," he said, "I might take my leave of you. I had been intending to speak with Mr. Stone, for he appears to be rather unsettled."

Eleanor snorted. "I am certain it would be appreciated. Perhaps it might convince him to desist in his recent inappropriate behaviour."

"Oh, now, dear," Samantha said, "he may not be acting quite like himself but that is hardly inappropriate."

The Reverend nodded quietly to them and, with one last concerned look to the Matron, left.

"Are you alright?" Eleanor asked, the moment he was out of sight.

Samantha smiled, now long returned to her normal colour. "Perfectly fine, my dear," she replied.

Eleanor's face expressed her unspoken disbelief. However she merely inclined her head. "What more is there?"

Samantha's smile faltered momentarily. "More, dear?"

Eleanor's eyes narrowed. "You said that there was more to the boy's behaviour than the doctor spoiling him."

Samantha Cole nodded sagely. "Imaginary or not, you did forbid him from playing with his little friend."

"And Martha?" Eleanor inquired pointedly. "What excuse can you give for _her _behaviour?"

There was a tense pause.

"Guilt," Samantha said.

"…Guilt," Eleanor repeated, baffled.

"His mother died under her care," Samantha explained. "She may have asked us not to mention to anyone that the woman committed suicide under her care, to only say she died in childbirth, but that does not change the fact that it happened. Martha takes her duties very seriously; she will have counted it as a personal failure."

"And you?" Eleanor inquired. "Are you a personal failure?"

"I'm an old woman, Eleanor. You cannot expect it not to show," she said. Then, gently, she patted her daughter-in-law's leg and stood, not at all dizzy. "Sometimes, my dear, you worry too much."

* * *

Tommy followed the unhappy man curiously. Mr. Stone had unexpectedly hurried over to him, when the Reverend started walking his way, and told Tommy that he was taking him to visit a grave. As far as Tom knew, a grave was a type of facial expression; so that made very little sense. Adults, however, very rarely made sense. Therefore, it could not possibly be something to be concerned about …but Tom also knew that Mrs. Cole had made him promise not to play with Rosie anymore and Rosie lived among all the strange stones that the unhappy man was leading him through. Tom wasn't sure if Mr. Stone knew that – and that made him nervous. In fact, Tom had been experiencing a growing feeling of unease in regard to the cemetery ever since Mrs. Cole had explained to him that Rosie was ill. It could easily been nothing more than his imagination, but ever since he had been told that he'd had the feeling that there was something… unusual about the place he and Rosie had played. Something not quite right.

For the time being, however, Tom was content to put it aside. The way he saw things, even if Mr. Stone were stupid enough to lead him into danger (and Tom saw no reason adults should be miraculously all knowing, because it wasn't logical to assume older people were naturally also smarter) then Mr. Stone, not he, would be the one who was in trouble for bad behaviour.

Mr. Stone led him passed many of the more pleasant looking stones – from among which Rosie glared out at him, frowning and pouting at the same time, appearing rather lost and very lonely – and to a more crowded cluster of smaller, more unkempt, stones. Eventually, Mr. Stone stopped walking in front of one of the smallest, plainest stones. There he stood in silence, with one hand on Tom's shoulder, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

Tom wasn't certain whether it was the strange – almost wet – cold or the soft sounds of her movement that alerted him to the fact that Rosie was standing right behind him.

"Why do you not play with me anymore?" she asked, still somewhere behind his right shoulder.

Tom (aware that he was not supposed to play with her because she was ill and that he would be caught doing otherwise if he spoke) stiffened at her words but did not otherwise acknowledge her presence. This, however, did not discourage the little girl and she moved around until she was standing directly in front of the little boy, and above the slightly raised grass that stood between Tom and the strange stone at which the orphanage worker had stopped. Her hands clenched in impotent little fists.

"I want you to play with me," she said. Then, plaintively, she added: "Please, Tommy, come play with me."

Tom was quite aware that his friend must be lonely, but – perhaps made more noticeable by the lighting that day, perhaps made more noticeable because of his own odd mood – the hard white thing (Martha had called it a bone) seemed to be sticking out of her face more than usual and it only served to augment Tom's feeling on unease. He leaned slightly closer into Mr. Stone's touch. This, however, did nothing but further irk the stubborn child he had once considered to be his friend.

"Why don't you play with me anymore?" she demanded, her small form shaking in unexpressed anger. "I want you to play with me. WHY WON'T YOU PLAY WITH ME?"

Shocked and rather terrified by the sudden – loud – display of anger, Tom stumbled backward, wide eyed, further into Mr. Stone's stiff, cold embrace. No doubt altered to the four year old's discomfort by the aforementioned tot's sudden movement, the schoolmaster gently squeezed the boy's shoulder and led him away from the cemetery.

* * *

Lunch for Doctor M. Elder consisted that day, as unhealthy as it most likely was, of Beschuitjes met Muisjes at the desk in the corner of her infirmary which functioned as her office. She chewed absent-mindedly as she considered the problem set out on the page before her and occasionally made notes, leaning forward so much as she did so that she was just barely perched on the edge of her chair and leaning – with the elbow of the arm attached to the hand holding her beschuitje – on the desk.

As the doctor's attention was almost completely focused on the notes which she had made her study, the arrival of Henry Cole – the Matron's twenty-six year old son – seemed to go by completely unnoticed. The soft-spoken and somewhat plain young man glanced around the room, hesitantly, and only approached the doctor's meticulously organized desk after establishing that he and the doctor were, indeed, the only two people in the room. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet for a few moments, uncertain of the correct course of action to take to gain the doctor's attention. Eventually, he coughed quietly.

"A pity," the doctor said, not looking up from her work. "Most unwelcome visitors have the good grace to leave when they realise they are not important enough to be welcome, but that was evidently expecting too much of you."

Henry flinched and took a step backward, one side of his mouth momentarily lifting in a confused and hurt attempt to smile and then falling again. He turned away – most likely to leave – running a hand through his hair as he did. A large array of emotions made there presence known as they ghosted across his face: all in the few seconds it had taken him to run his hand through his hair and dropped his arm afterward. That being done, and having come to some sort of internal decision, Henry turned back to the doctor, his expression set.

"We need to talk," he said, a note of desperation clearly audible in his intonations.

The doctor failed to acknowledge this statement in any way whatsoever.

"About my mother," Henry continued. "I want to know what is wrong with her. Please, Martha, I'm not blind. There is something wrong; I've seen it. The exhaustion, the dizziness, she coughs and wheezes most of the time – on more than one occasion she's turned _blue_ – and she eats her share but she only ever becomes thinner. What is wrong with her?"

"Medical confidentiality dictates that I do not answer that question," the doctor said brusquely, clearly intending to end the conversation.

"I am her son," Henry replied, his tone clearly that of a meek person making a failed attempt at standing up to someone far more powerful, "I have the right to know what is happening."

For the first time, the doctor actually did look up: her gaze steady and penetrating – and well matched to the acidic tone with which she spoke. "Do you not _understand_ the implications of medical confidentiality?"

Henry shifted nervously, but did not look away. "She is only refusing to inform me because she does not want me to worry, but that is ridiculous because it simply leaves me with more reason to worry. She shouldn't be doing this."

The doctor reply was spoken slowly, the only sign of the careful inner search for the appropriate words and phrases that was noticeable. "Confidentiality requires of me that I respect my patients' decisions about their own privacy. Whether or not I agree with their choices is immaterial. An argument based on the grounds that the patient is making a wrong choice, so defined by an outside party who does not have all the pertinent information, will therefore, necessarily, fail."

"Please!" he cried, his exclamation choked out. "Is my mother going to die?"

The doctor raised an elegant eyebrow. "Everyone dies eventually," she said.

Henry Cole stumbled backward, reeling in shock, almost as if he had been slapped. The distress and confusion which, so clearly, displayed themselves upon his face mingled with desperation, an odd sort of almost betrayed disbelief and an unmistakable plea, in his tone, when he reached the door. "_Doctor?_"

"I can't answer that question," she said.

For a moment, the man's face was contorted by bitterness. "Can't or won't?" he asked, practically spitting the inquiry.

"Shan't," the doctor replied.

* * *

Rosie Mallory-Baines looked unhappily down on the boy she used to believe was her friend. Tommy was not talking to her. He was ignoring her and the few times he had actually looked at her his eyes had focused on her inj'ry – he had looked at her with a trace of fear in his eyes. That was not polite; and Mrs. Baker, her nanny, had always stressed the importance of good manners. It was not a very friendly thing to do, either. Rosie did not really mind that, she just wanted her friend back and – since Tommy was refusing to talk to her when there were adults around – she had simply followed him home and waited until everyone in the nursery had gone to sleep. Unfortunately, Tommy had fallen asleep before some of the others and waking him was proving to be more difficult that Rosie had anticipated. She didn't know why she could go through things – and people – but it certainly made it hard to shake someone awake. She had started out gently touching his shoulder and his face, trying to wake him with the gentle touches. The time her hand had accidentally passed through Tommy's face and into his head had been completely unintentional and very, very frightening. Tommy, however, had clearly felt differently because his only reaction was to shiver in his sleep and curl up into a smaller ball beneath his blankets. Eventually, out of sheer loneliness and desperation, Rosie had simply curled up around her friend and started whispering to him – seeking both to wake her friend and to gain some modicum of comfort from the presence of another – while being careful not to pass through him. She did not even mind when he wet the bed – Mrs. Baker had told her that such things could happen when one was cold – as she knew her friend was, after all, still very little.

In her arms, little Tommy's body was wracked with shivers and the more she tried to touch and comfort him, the colder he became. Due to her ministrations, he was, in fact, turning blue when it happened.

The floor – carpeted – next to Tommy's bed caught fire. The flames, large and hot, began to lap at the legs of Tommy's cot as they spread throughout the room. Tom whimpered in his sleep and curled up even tighter than he had been before; still terribly cold as the ambient temperature in the room was only just beginning to rise.

The smell of smoke – and the terrible heat – began to rouse the other children from their sleep when the nursery curtains caught fire, thus making the flickering light of the flames to the people on the street and in the other buildings thereon – at least, as visible as they could be while trapped behind the glass of the window.

Dennis, perhaps the most sensible – if not simply the most awake – of all of them, attempted to call for help; but the smoke made it both difficult to breathe and to speak. Sight too, was difficult as the entire room appeared to be filling with a reddish haze. Tom still slept, shivering, but Rosie had long since pulled away from him and backed away from the bed; coughing. If she had been calmer she might have realised that her own coughing was more of a reaction to the memory of fire than the actual physical presence of it.

"Tommy!" she cried, coughing as she did. "TOMMY STOP IT!"

Tom twisted in his sleep, the shivers that had wracked his body only just beginning to abate. The nursery window exploded. Cold wind swept flame and smoke out of the room – but the flames inside grew hotter and larger and began to lap at the nursery walls – the plumes created quite impotent against the stone exterior of the building, but quite unmistakeable to those in the area. Tommy shivered as the cold wind blew over him – only in his sleep hearing the cacophony of children crying out for help and coughing.

It was Rosie's coughing and screaming that did eventually break through his troubled sleep. He sat up in his cot, staring through the haze of smoke in the room (which was only slightly lesser than it had previously been, due to the open window) at Rosie – who, standing in the middle of the room with the wild wind actually looping around her, was almost engulfed by the tall plumes of flame and was a rather terrifying sight, especially when the flames licked at and through her burnt dress and the bone that protruded from her cheek – in horror. He couldn't understand precisely what she was saying – the sounds of the fire and the winds, and her coughing, made it quite impossible – but it was enough to understand the basics of what she was trying to convey. This, she was trying to convey, had happened to her before. This was how she had died. Tom was trying to breathe, and trying to see, but every inhalation of hot, dry air and smoke made his lungs and throat feel burned and his eyes were red and watering from the smoke and the heat.

All around the nursery, flames began to lick at the alphabet, written in childish letters, upon the nursery walls.

* * *

It had taken far longer than should have been acceptable, almost certainly two or three minutes, for the orphanage staff to realise something was wrong. There had been a staff meeting, none of them had been on the same floor as the nursery and no one had heard the coughing and the yelling. The sound of shattering glass, however, had been loud and unmistakeable.

Martha had been the first to reach the second floor and the first to see the smoke that was sliding out through the spaces around the door – beneath it the most, a thick and spreading cloud, but also through the side edges and the top, more like twisting and dissipating vines – and the flames that had begun to stretch out under the door, licking at it almost as if the flames were fingers of a hand reaching out underneath the door to escape… or to attract unwary victims. It was, however, Eleanor – the second to reach the top – who sounded the alarm. It was Eleanor who dashed back to the stairs and yelled down to the others (still coming up the stairs) to get all the children out of the building, to get them to the orphanage gates and perform a headcount. Martha had quickly overcome her shock and, as Eleanor did this, rushed from door to door; waking the orphans on the second storey and ordering them from the building.

It was chaos. Children ran and children screamed as adults on three storeys struggled to keep control and direct them all to safety. The Matron had quite nearly collapsed as she hurried to remove the children, and the necessary official documents kept in her office, from the ground floor. Oliver Richardson had practically carried her from the building, while leading a small trail of younger orphans out by the hand. Several orphans were caught attempting to return to the building and rescue their soft toys; others had to be directed away from the fallen glass of the broken window. Mary, the first time she had lead a group of orphans out of the building, had immediately recognised the room from which the smoke poured out as the nursery and had run out of the cold night, into the crowded corridors and toward the stairs. The cat, recognising the scent of smoke and danger, leaped from the roof.

Simon lashed out and grabbed her, pulling her out of the way of the children rushing down the stairs; bawling and panicking as they did.

"We need you down here!" he yelled, trying to be heard over the many yelling and panicked voices.

Mary pulled her wrist from his grasp and began making her way upstairs – it seemed almost impossible, as she was moving against the stream of orphans rushing downward. The nursery door was open when she reached it and, for the first time, Mary was very glad that the corridors were tiled rather than carpeted. Donald and Clarice were standing in the corridor, staring at the burning room in terror and coughing in the ever expanding area of smoke. Without thinking, Mary yelled at them to head for the stairs and rushed into the burning room.

Even with the door and the window open, the smoke made it nearly impossible to see. It was only the sound of coughing that alerted Mary to Martha's presence and allowed her to move before the doctor stumbled from the room, carrying Dennis Bishop. As she stumbled toward Annie's cot, Mary thought she could see Eleanor through the haze – struggling to put out the flames which had enveloped Tom Riddle's bed.

The old angel mobile that had hung above Anne's bassinet had caught fire, somehow, and fallen onto her in the cot. The stench of burning flesh was overwhelming and Mary very nearly vomited over the remains of the burning angels. The pain that she felt, the burning of her palm, when she grabbed the remains of the mobile and flung it from the cot was excruciating and she struggled, one handed, to smother the flames that had caught in Annie's – thankfully long – red curls, of which there were almost none left.

She stumbled from the room, tot in her arms, almost exactly at the same time as Eleanor, carrying the Riddle boy, quite nearly fell out of the room – the both of them coughing and sweating. As they stumbled down the corridor, Martha came out of the infirmary – a large bag, probably medical supplies, flung over her shoulder.

When Mary caught sight of the bag she gasped, then was briefly overcome by a hacking cough. "The box!" she gasped, turning back to return to the nursery. "Their things!"

Eleanor grabbed her and began pulling her toward the stairs. "Priorities!" she snapped.

Martha had not moved. She still stood in the middle of the corridor – and just outside the infirmary – watching them leave. Behind her the flames crept out of the open, burning, nursery door and along the walls.

Eleanor never could explain exactly why, but in the moment she looked back at the doctor it seemed almost as if the world and everything in it (except their understanding of each other's intentions) had slowed. The doctor usually blamed such things on the mind working faster under pressure. There had been a strange, perhaps knowing would be the accurate term, look in the doctor's eyes when their gazes met and, for just a moment, the doctor seemed to nod. Then, to Eleanor's horror, she turned gracefully and ran back to the nursery, disturbingly calm and focused in her features.

Half an hour later, as the fire brigade finished putting out the flames, Doctor Elder still displayed a disturbing sort of calm and focus as she sat, tending the most minor of the injuries sustained in the fire, with the trick box of toddler's belongings sitting with Tom's toy monkey by her side. Even Annie, impossibly, had not received worse than some first degree burns.

Eleanor, aware that there was nothing in the nursery to start a fire, walked up behind the doctor and leaned down to his in her ear; "Am I still making assumptions, Martha?"

As she left, she missed the haunted expression that crossed Martha's face.

* * *

**To Jen103: **Thank you for your interest, I'm always happy both to answer questions and hear that someone is looking forward to reading more. So, to answer your questions (in the order they were asked). No, the ugly lady is not Rosie's nanny. Rosie's nanny was a muggle (Rosie was muggleborn and died before she received a Hogwarts letter, as only witches and wizards - per canon - can become ghosts). On the other hand, yes: this is the same lady he has seen before (for instance he waved to her in chapter twelve). Finally, as this chapter clearly shows, Rosie can indeed leave the graveyard. She simply hasn't had much reason to do so before now. If you have any more questions, at any point, feel free to ask. I'll be happy to answer, although I may have to be mysterious about it at times if you continue to be so observant.

**To Liliana:** I'm pleased to hear that you are think so highly of my writing. Naturally, I can't say whether your feeling about Martha's fate is accurate since that would be giving things away, so all I can really say is... actually, you've got me worked into a bit of a corner here. I can't think of a single form of yes, no or maybe that wouldn't risk giving something away. Martha certainly is the adult Tom trusts the most, though.


	22. Dote: Janurary to June, 1931

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad. I also neither own nor am making money off the two included quotes from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories: The _Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb_ and _The Adventure of the Copper Beeches_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Dote**

The firemen had not been able to explain the blaze. It had been simple to end, but its beginnings were still quite inexplicable. Nevertheless, miraculously, no one had suffered severe injuries – not even from the inhalation of smoke, which could have (_should_ have) easily killed them.

No severe injuries.

No structural damage.

The words seemed to be trapped in Eleanor's head, repeating over and over again as if on a record being played by a gramophone that never needed to be wound up.

No severe injuries (no stay in the hospital).

No structural damage (no need to move out).

No severe injuries. No structural damage. No explanation.

…No explanation.

Eleanor suppressed a sigh as she closed her eyes, having been – up until moments before – lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. To her right; Mary slept, to her left; Martha… to Mary's right was Annie and across the room from where they lay slept Tom, Dennis, Donald and Clarice.

No severe injuries – but Martha wanted everyone who had been exposed to the smoke to stay in the infirmary by night so she could watch over them… ironically, she herself, therefore, also had to sleep in the infirmary; instead of in her room, next door, where there was no help if something happened.

No structural damage – once the building had been declared safe they had been allowed to return… but they had to avoid the areas damaged by fire until it had been repaired and refurnished, so even once the doctor was willing to admit her patients seemed to be in extraordinarily good health, for people who could very well have died, they would still have to sleep in the infirmary (the only empty beds).

No explanation …except, of course, the one she did not want to think about.

Eleanor Cole rolled over onto her side and opened her eyes.

Martha Elder was staring intently back at her.

Eleanor quite nearly squeaked in surprise.

"You should be dead," the doctor informed her, calmly.

In a tone equally quiet to that of the doctor, Eleanor replied, "As should you."

The doctor, whose position – one arm under the ear facing the mattress and the other lying on the mattress slightly in front of the first arm – Eleanor had mimicked without thought, inclined her head.

"We ought to be glad of our good luck," Eleanor murmured.

"I don't believe in luck," Martha replied.

"What do you believe in?" Eleanor asked, somewhat warily; for the doctor was known to be disturbingly blunt with such topics.

"Caution," Martha whispered. "I believe in caution."

Eleanor blinked at this, watching her sole conscious companion intently as the moonlight which illuminated her face grew brighter – Martha had left the drapes on one of the windows open and the clouds were moving away from the, still nearly full, moon.

Martha, apparently aware that her cryptic comments had not been explanation enough for her companion, sighed almost inaudibly. "I believe I owe you an apology," she murmured, sounding very much as if the words – although indubitably sincere – were painful for her to say. "I should not have dismissed your concerns without further consideration – especially as some of your presumptions turned out to be …not wholly inaccurate."

"Martha…" Eleanor began, slowly.

"You were right," Martha bit out, almost as if she was forcing herself to say the words. "He is dangerous." Her tone then changed suddenly, becoming pensive and soft. "But, I think, he is not so with intent."

"Martha," Eleanor murmured again. "I never said he was."

The doctor stared at her, thoughtfully, for a few moments, then suddenly climbed from her bed and walked into her bedroom at a brisk pace. She shut the door on the infirmary before Eleanor had a chance to react to her sudden exit. When the doctor returned she was almost fully dressed – once again in her usual white – and just finishing slipping a small silver locket around her neck.

According to the small clock on the nightstand, it was only four in the morning. Eleanor frowned as the doctor swept past and headed toward her desk, which sat at the other end of the room. Without thinking, Eleanor followed her.

Martha lit the paraffin lamp on her desk and sat down. She had, Eleanor noted, opened the blue logbook to its index.

"Doctor?" she inquired. Then, again, sharper she spoke: "Martha?"

The doctor looked up. "When he was frightened by the thermometers they broke, when he was cold a fire started …and when we should have been killed or severely injured by the smoke, we all came out unharmed." She paused, leaning her head slightly on one of her hands, with her fingers on her temple. "Somehow, he is protecting himself."

Eleanor frowned. "So," she said hesitantly, "he does not mean any harm."

"He is dangerous," Martha replied.

Eleanor's eyes widened, shocked that the doctor would openly and bluntly condemn the boy she had stubbornly defended, beyond the point of reason, his entire life.

"Martha…" she breathed, rather at a loss for words.

"He has no control," Martha said, her tone low and somewhat chilled. "Therefore his… abilities are chaotic, unpredictable. Something used with intent to harm is always safer than something over which there is no control. …Something which is under control – even control that has harmful intentions – can be… reasoned with, planned for, dealt with. There is no reasoning with chaos."

"What should we do?" Eleanor asked.

"You should do nothing," Martha replied. "I shall deal with this."

Eleanor pulled away from the desk, which she had begun to lean over, indignant. "Do you not trust my judgment?"

"If I did not I would not have shared any of this with you. However, as you tend to… aggravate… the boy, I would suggest you …delegate matters concerning him to other, less involved, parties."

Eleanor frowned again. "Then it is his judgment you do not trust."

"As we have concluded that he cannot possibly be controlling his …abilities… there is no judgment on his part _to_ trust." The doctor paused, cautiously, before adding, "However, if you feel it is imperative to …find someone untrustworthy… I would submit that it is _my_ judgment that cannot be trusted."

Eleanor stared at her companion for a long, seemingly stretched, moment. "Martha," she asked hesitantly, taking in the doctor's daytime attire, "when was the last time you slept through the whole night?"

"I am accustomed to sleeping less than other individuals," the doctor replied.

"Martha, how long has it been?" Eleanor asked, this time more forcefully; although she kept her voice low.

Martha paused, then lifted the locket – by its chain – over her head and allowed it to dangle, also by its chain, from her fingers. "It is now the sixth of January. As of four hours and fifteen minutes ago, it became my thirty-first birthday," she said. "Twenty-one years, two days."

Eleanor blinked at her. "…I beg your pardon?" she replied, somewhat flummoxed.

"The answer to your question," Martha said, mildly, "is that it has been twenty-one years and two days since I last slept an entire night."

Eleanor stared at her. "Why?"

Martha suddenly dropped the small locket into a drawer in her desk, which Eleanor had not realised was even open until that moment, her intense gaze locked with Eleanor's. "Do not push your _luck_."

The sound of the drawer being snapped shut was sharp, clear and abrupt.

Diagonally across the room a little figure climbed out of bed and blearily stumbled toward them. Martha's expression froze when she saw who it was.

"Maa-rtha?" Tommy asked, rather confused.

The doctor raised an elegant eyebrow. "Yes, Maas?" she replied.

"Will you read to me?" he asked.

Eleanor's jaw dropped slightly.

The doctor appeared to consider this for a moment. "Very well," she conceded. "You are liable to stand here until you freeze to death if I refuse, after all."

Then, to Eleanor's continuing shock, she lifted a book in one hand and the paraffin lamp in the other and allowed the boy to lead her back to his bed, where – having placed the paraffin lamp on the bedside cabinet – she opened the book to its index.

Eleanor followed, bemused. "I thought," she said, "that all the books appropriate for his age group were lost in the fire."

Martha's lips twitched slightly as she inclined her head. "Appropriate is an… interesting choice of words," she murmured. "Now," she continued, addressing the four year old upon whose bed she was perched. "Where were we up to?"

Tom replied without hesitation, "We had just finished the Adventure of the Speckled Band."

Martha nodded.

"Engine's Thumb," Dennis added helpfully, from his bed. "We're up to the Venture of the Engine's Thumb."

Choosing not to correct the boy, Martha turned to the appropriate page and began to read. "The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb," she said, her voice quiet but audible. "Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice – that of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton's madness."

Eleanor stood by; watching in shock.

* * *

Although there had been no further instances of… whatever it was that was happening… since the fire and the surprisingly good health of those exposed to the smoke; Eleanor Cole worried. Being told to do nothing and allow someone else to control events was not something she was particularly good at. When the person giving those orders had inexplicably admitted that their own judgment was compromised, it became even more difficult. She had not said a word on the matter since the sun had risen, nor since the sun had set, but she was concerned. Although they all showed signs of bafflingly good health, the repairs to the nursery would take a significant amount of time – it wasn't that there weren't people to do the work, in fact; there were large numbers of out of work individuals who would be glad to do it, it was that the children both had to live in the building and be safe from work applicants who were less than acceptable in nature – and so the toddlers, if not Mary and Eleanor also, would be trapped in the infirmary by night for a considerable time yet. Worse still, Eleanor had very carefully reconsidered her colleague's logic and could not find a rational explanation as to why Martha would deem her judgment untrustworthy: there was not a single flaw to be found in her logic.

"It was a cold morning of the early spring," Martha said quietly, reading to an attentive audience of two, "and we sat after breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths."

Eleanor stared once more at the ceiling of the infirmary, her own, troubled, thoughts – rather than the dramatic reading on the other side of the room – keeping her from her sleep. Glancing to her left, Eleanor could see Martha's oval locket lying on the bedside cabinet, next to the clock she had brought with her from her bedroom. It was a surprisingly tiny antique pendulum clock, nothing at all alike to the domestic electric clocks which had become popular in 1918.

Eleanor sighed to herself, she had not spoken to Martha about their conversation since it had finished. In fact, the only time they had spoken was when Martha had coldly informed her that she did not particularly _care_ that Louise, Princess Royal and Duchess of Fife, had passed away on the fourth, nor how the royal family were coping with their loss. Eleanor rolled over onto her right side.

Mary was also awake, apparently, judging by the wide-eyed look of surprise that graced her features when her gaze met Eleanor's.

"It is rather a miracle, isn't it?" Mary murmured.

"That we are all unharmed?" Eleanor muttered in reply.

"No," Mary whispered, amusedly, "that Martha is reading them a story."

Both women giggled. Suddenly, Mary smiled at her and Eleanor realised that, for the first time, her colleague was treating her as if they were equals – friends, even. Eleanor returned the smile. She was pleased to be accepted by the other woman. She would simply not mention what she and Martha had discussed to Mary, for she was bound to react badly.

* * *

In spite of all apparent logic, Tom Riddle – who had been almost certainly in perfect health when the new nursery wall paper had been put in; the day before – had collapsed in the infirmary, on the third of February. Almost moments after Martha had stated that all the physical damage to the rooms had been repaired and that she did not believe there were any lingering effects of the fire damaging any of them (with the sole exception of little Annie's burns) Tom had collapsed from what Martha had only defined as "exhaustion". The bowl of porridge he had been holding had fallen, spilling its contents over the doctor's skirt and legs.

Although Eleanor was in no way surprised that the doctor's first thoughts had been for her patient, she was startled by the lack of annoyance the doctor showed. It was only once the boy had fallen asleep and Mary had finished escorting the other toddlers to the drawing room to play, while the nursery was being refurnished, that the doctor extrapolated on her previous comment.

"Exhaustion," Martha repeated, noting Eleanor's expression. "All change, be it the chemical changes of a burning fire or simple movement, requires some form of energy. The fire in the nursery began with air and with fuel, but no heat – a vital component. A window shattered – an explosion of kinetic energy – when there was no push and no pressure to cause it. Then, when severe injuries or even death ought to have been the result, eight people exited that room as if they had never inhaled a single breath of that smoke. Or, at least, that is how it appeared. For people who should have been injured and physically weakened by the experience, we have been in surprisingly good health and oddly energetic in attitude. To be frank, I would have been far more surprised if the boy had _not _collapsed."

The doctor then returned to removing the porridge from her skirt and legs with the towel Eleanor had supplied.

Eleanor looked at her in surprise. Faintly irritated, she asked, "Shouldn't you be doing something?"

Martha gave her a pointed look. "Exhaustion is a very common _side effect_ of illness," she said coolly. "The _only cure_ is rest."

Eleanor nodded to her and left, all the while feeling as if she had somehow missed something of significance.

* * *

"You were specifically instructed to stay out of smoke filled environments."

Eleanor Cole stopped, in the corridor, directly in front of a door and pressed her ear against it, upon hearing the quiet, angry voice in the staffroom.

"I would hardly qualify this as _filled_."

"I told you to stop using those."

The second speaker scoffed. "It is medicinal."

"It's killing you."

Eleanor frowned. The angry voice, now that she was listening, she could recognise as Martha's. The dismissive voice was weak and hoarse – and thus unrecognisable.

"I would rather enjoy the rest of my life," the dismissive person replied, barely audible to the younger Mrs. Cole.

"You would have more life to enjoy if you would stop acting like a_ fool_," Martha snapped.

Whatever the weaker voice said in reply was quite inaudible.

"Then at least stop asking me to _lie_," the doctor replied.

"Doctor…" the second voice wheezed, "fidentiality does not involve lying."

"But pretending not to be concerned for my patient's well being does." There was a pause, in which only heavy breathing could be heard, then the doctor spoke again, her first word to low to be understood beyond the fact that it was clearly a term of address. "…_tell them_."

Eleanor heard someone coughing, then the dismissive person – perhaps a woman, but she could barely hear the voice – responded.

"You don't want to concern them," Martha sneered, clearly mimicking what her companion had said, then her voice became louder and her tone became angry, aggressive; even. "They are _already concerned_! And when you are _dead, _they will blame me for not telling them what was HAPPENING!"

From what Eleanor could hear there was an almost surprised sounding silence from beyond the door, following the outburst, in which the doctor evidently took several deep breaths to compose herself before speaking again.

"At least try some form of treatment," she said, her tone defeated.

The woman Eleanor could not identify – but who could easily be, in Eleanor's opinion, one of the occasional patients the doctor received from outside of the orphanage – spoke wryly, with a sort of bitter amusement lacing her weak and wheezy voice. "You said yourself that there is no cure."

"No cure we are certain is affective," the doctor corrected.

There was a moment's silence, in which Eleanor presumed the unidentified woman shrugged.

"Why waste the money?"

"Better to waste it on trying to help than on making your condition worse," the doctor replied.

"My husband knows," the weak voice said.

"But not your son?" the doctor asked, almost rhetorically. There was a pause in which the other woman must have made some form of non-verbal reply in the negative, for Martha replied, "Of course not. You do not wish to _concern_ them."

Eleanor pressed herself closer against the door, only able to hear a few of the other woman's words.

"….unusually emotional. Unlike you… care …sure you are not concerned?"

"Why should I be concerned?" the doctor spat. "I know what is happening."

Eleanor backed away from the door as she began to hear footsteps within the room.

"Do as you will," the doctor said impassively. "I cannot treat a patient who continuously ignores my instructions. It is March twenty-first. If you have not started taking my advice more seriously by the twenty-second of June I must ask you to find yourself a new doctor." Her tone changed slightly, although not as open as it had been when she lost her temper, the significant darkening of it was noticeably uncharacteristic of the aloof woman. "I cannot stand by while another patient of mine kills themselves."

* * *

On the morning of June the twenty-second, which was a Monday, Eleanor was informed by one of the older orphans that Doctor Elder wished to speak with her in the infirmary.

As Eleanor had heard from Mary that, the day before, the image of the alphabet – which the Riddle boy had painted and had been destroyed with the wallpaper it was on, in the fire – had appeared shining through the new wallpaper; in spite of the fact that the old wallpaper had not been left behind it, she was rather anxious to speak with the doctor. She hurried to the infirmary after breakfast, ignoring her husband's quiet inquiry as to the location of his mother – who, like the doctor, had failed to join them for breakfast.

When she opened the door and entered the nursery, she was surprised to see her mother-in-law – who appeared alarmingly frail as she walked past Eleanor and left the room, nodding to the doctor as she did.

"I take it," the younger Mrs. Cole said slowly, "that this is not about the boy."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Indeed not," she replied. "However I have news regarding that matter as well."

"Oh?" Eleanor inquired.

"After detailed analysis, it became apparent that there is some form of logical rule set governing the boy's… unusual reaction to reality," the doctor said.

"This is a good thing?" Eleanor inquired, for the sake of certainty and clarification.

"Indeed," Doctor Elder stated. "If logical parameters can be established, than it can be predicted. If it can be predicted, then there is a reasonable possibility that it can be controlled."

Eleanor nodded, in acceptance, although her expression grew troubled. "You did not call me here to discuss this," she said.

The doctor nodded and sat down behind her desk, laying her forearms and clasped hands down upon it. "Your mother in law has deemed it pertinent for me to inform you of certain ...facts. She is indubitably speaking to her son of the matter at this moment."

"What facts?" the younger Mrs. Cole asked, as a feeling of dread began to wreck merry havoc in her gut.

"Samantha Esther Cole has been diagnosed with Emphysema. She has refused all treatment and the disease is fatal."

"Fatal," Eleanor repeated, stunned.

"At this time, no successful cure has been developed. It is unlikely that a successful cure will be developed before she dies. As things stand, she is most probably already beyond the aid of even a successful cure."

Eleanor swallowed, shaken both by the news and the doctor's callously cold and clinical attitude toward it. "How… how long does she have?"

Doctor Elder raised an eyebrow. "I would estimate, at best, somewhere between one year and two."

"Two years?" Eleanor cried; confused, angry and somewhat irritated.

If possible, the doctor's eyebrow climbed higher. "This is not like Cholera, or any number of other infectious diseases, Eleanor. One does not become infected with Emphysema and die within the next few hours, days or months. It is not even an infectious disease."

Her anger fading, Eleanor nodded. "How long has she had this… disease?"

"I diagnosed her with it in late May, nineteen-twenty-five," the doctor said blandly.

"Is it painful?" Eleanor asked.

"I wouldn't know," Doctor Elder said. "I've never had it."

Eleanor's eyes narrowed. "Is she _in pain_?" she pointedly inquired, making certain to enunciate clearly.

"Perhaps it would be more appropriate to ask that question of her," the doctor replied.

Eleanor looked down; frustrated, but aware that she would receive no answers from the doctor beyond those which she had received permission to give from the senior Mrs. Cole.

"This… Emphysema," Eleanor said, struggling with the word. "I have never heard of it before. What… exactly is it? Does it go by any other name?"

The doctor looked at her impassively. "Lung Rot," she said.

* * *

**To Shawna:** Then I sincerely hope this one has lived up to your expectations!


	23. Make Them Hurt: July 19th and 20th, 1931

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognizable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** I am sorry it took me so long to get this chapter written, the end of semester rush of assignments made it quite impossible to work. However, as I only have three examinations left between myself and being ready to graduate, I doubt it shall be a problem again.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Make Them Hurt**

Martha Elder was a patient woman. She had waited from the twenty-second of June to the twelfth of July to be completely certain that Tom Riddle had overcome his exhaustion. Then, when one little girl had come down with the flu and stayed in the infirmary instead of going to church, she had waited for the next Sunday instead. Even when the news of the flood in China, on the sixteenth, had reached the world she had waited patiently for more news, rather than speculating without information.

For the moment, however, the wait for her infirmary to empty was over. In the next ten minutes the staff and orphans would all leave for church and she would remain at the orphanage – alone but for the presence of little Tommy Riddle, who had been complaining of dizziness and a headache: symptoms that would either miraculously end once everyone else had left the building or become real by the time they returned. It was, perhaps, not the best of timing – since they were to go on the summer outing the next day, but it would do. It was more a question, after all, of how long Eleanor could stand to wait for her to do something.

Tommy, ever desirous of attention, rolled over on his bed and put the pillow over his head with a little noise which sounded oddly like "meh".

Samantha frowned down at the boy. "Oh you poor thing," she murmured. "Are you certain he will even feel well enough to play with the blocks?"

"If he is well enough to play, I prefer that he not bother me," Doctor Elder replied coolly.

"…but, just blocks, Martha?" Samantha said. "He's a very intelligent boy–"

"Then take him out of Mary's infant lessons and put him in Jonathan's organized Junior school lessons," Martha said coldly.

Samantha seemed taken aback. "I did not mean that, Martha, I–"

"Jonathan's part of Infant school, then – Year One or Year Two," Martha said.

Samantha sighed, perfectly capable of recognising when she had been well and truly defeated. "Very well, Doctor, I shall join the others and we shall leave now," she said. "I shall mention your _suggestion_ to Jonathan and Mary and leave the boy in your capable hands."

Martha nodded to the woman, watching silently as she walked out the door. A few minutes later, she heard the front door shut loudly and the sound of many voices and feet begin to fade away as their owners left for church.

Once she was quite certain that they were all gone, Martha walked over to the bed Tom was lying on and lifted the side of the pillow he had buried his head under, creating what seemed almost like a tent above his head.

Tommy was lying on his back, with his hands near his chest, smiling slightly. "Hello," he said.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Do you intend to stay in here forever, then?" she dryly inquired.

Tom looked up at her with wide, guileless eyes and shrugged.

Martha, momentarily acting on the scene's striking resemblance to several from her own childhood, smiled and dropped the pillow back on the boy's head, rubbing it in his face as he squirmed and giggled below it. When she finally pulled it away, she found that his normally neat hair looked almost as if he had been electrocuted – to the point where it was ever so slightly static to touch – and he wore a wide, wild smile to match the enthused glint in his eyes.

"Hello," Tom repeated.

Martha laughed quietly and ran her fingers through his, definitely static, hair. "Up," she said firmly, urging him off the bed.

Tom looked up at her, slid off the bed and – craning his neck upward – blinked at her. "What're we do-ing?" he asked, curious as to why she had let him fake a headache and stay back from church that day (it wasn't that he didn't like church, but that was where Rosie had been and it made him nervous).

"An experiment," Doctor Elder replied in a manner which could best be described as crisply.

"What's an ex-pair-e-ment?" Tom asked, carefully sounding out the word.

Martha paused as she walked across the room to pick up an anatomy book. "In this case, it would be an operation or procedure – a trial as it were – for the purpose of testing a scientific hypothesis."

Tom followed her. "What is a hypoth-ee-sus?" he asked.

"An idea," Martha said, allowing the boy to follow her to her desk and onto her chair, "about the way something – usually the universe – is or works, that hasn't been proven to be true or false yet."

Tom blinked and crawled onto her lap, not really understanding why she stiffened and pulled away slightly when he did so. "And we need my blocks for it?" he asked, glancing sceptically at her.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Perceptive," she murmured.

Tom, vaguely aware that he had been given a compliment, said, "Thank you."

The doctor nodded sharply, then placed the anatomy book – open to a page she had previously bookmarked – on her desk and placed a blue log book on top of it. "Before constructing and beginning an experiment," she said, "one must first analyse the evidence which has been the basis of the hypothesis the experiment is meant to test, to see that it is not faulty. If one fails to do this, the results of their experiment may be inaccurate."

She opened the log book to its index page.

Tommy immediately leaned forward over the open book, running his left index finger along the column of entries as he studied it. He couldn't actually understand the greater majority of the notes – abbreviated as they were – but there was one distinctive pattern to them he did notice.

"I'm in here!" he cried, surprised, pointing at his name. "Why am I in here so often?" he asked, confused. "Is that why you want me to help with the ex-pair-e-ment?"

Martha nodded. "Indeed, Tom," she said. "Your presence was the only consistently reoccurring element in each of these incidents, therefore it is necessary to include you in this study."

Tom frowned at her, trying to make sense of all the big words.

Martha frowned back at him. "Something different happened each time," she elucidated, trailing a finger down the index page as if to illustrate her statement. "Your presence was the only thing that was always the same. Logically, therefore, it is most likely that you have something to do with it. The experiment should tell us for certain whether or not the theory is correct."

Tommy nodded seriously up at her.

Martha, tensing, spoke again, "There is one other thing you must know about this." The awkward pause that followed was distinctly noticeable. Nevertheless, Martha swallowed and continued on with her explanation, no matter how distasteful she found it to be. "These… instances I have recorded and catalogued… they aren't normal, Tom. In fact they shouldn't even be possible. They are all inexplicable and most of them break at least _one _law of physics, if not more."

"What are laws of physics?" Tom asked, baffled by yet another strange and new concept.

"They are rules about how the universe works," Martha said. "Rules that cannot be broken."_ …except, of course, that they apparently are being broken_.

The look on Tommy's face strongly suggested that the concept of a rule that could not be broken – or, at least, circumvented – was completely and naturally foreign to him.

Martha, noting this, sighed. "For example: if you throw something up it will, eventually come down – no exceptions."

"It gets stuck in a tree!" Tom exclaimed as a sort of counter-argument.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Yet when it is eventually shaken loose of that tree it will fall to the ground, will it not? That is the law of gravity," she replied logically.

"Oh," Tom said, frowning and pouting slightly both from comprehension and disappointment at his failed arguments.

Martha smiled at him and shut the blue log book, then she moved it aside to reveal the open anatomy book beneath it. She pointed to the illustration on the page she had bookmarked. "For now, however, this is what we ought to consider," she said.

Tom blinked curiously at it. "What is it?" he asked.

"An illustration of the human nervous system," Martha replied calmly. "You see, the best way to observe for certain whether or not it is your presence is the deciding factor in these incidents is to try to create an incident which will act on one of the few things a person may be relatively certain is not being altered by unintended outside factors, that is: the human body."

"Why is it anxious?" Tom asked. Upon spotting the doctor's rather baffled expression, he extrapolated. "The nervous system. Why is it anxious?"

"It's not," Martha replied, too used to the boy's moments of sudden (and often verbally based) genius not to take his – albeit inaccurate – connection as usual. Nevertheless, she knew she would have to endeavour to keep her explanations as simple as she could – even if it caused an extremely minor inaccuracy or two to be used. "It is called the nervous system because it is made up of smaller body-parts called nerves."

"What are those?" Tom asked.

"Nerves, as part of the nervous system, relay information throughout the body," Martha finally said.

Tom stared at her, clearly about to ask several – most likely sceptical – questions, but he never quite had the chance to speak.

"I want you to pick one of the nerves – the little lines – you see in one of the limbs – the arms and legs – and focus on it," Martha stated.

"Why?" Tom demanded childishly.

Martha's answer was even more solemn than was usually expected of her. "Because I am going to have you sit down in my bedroom – where you have no direct line of sight to me – and I want you to try to make the nerve you have chosen shake inside my limb."

Tom's eyes widened. "Why?" he asked again.

"Inside my body, the effects can not be altered by external forces," she replied.

"Oh," Tom said in a very quiet – perhaps one might say small – tone. In fact, the boy appeared decidedly nervous about the entire matter. Nevertheless, he hugged the open anatomy book close to his chest as he allowed Martha to slide him off of her lap and lead him to her bedroom. It was, in fact, only once she had settled him on her bed that he spoke again.

"Which one ought I to choose?" he asked.

"Any will suffice," the doctor replied calmly as she walked to the door. "I shan't be doing anything dangerous so you are free to choose as you please. It should also make it impossible for me to imagine that any specific point is reacting."

She shut the door behind her.

For a long time, Tom stared after her. Finally, he looked down at the book and trailed his finger along each of the four limbs, thoughtfully. In the infirmary, similarly, Martha Elder sat behind her desk – working and waiting to see if something would happen. In this way, twenty minutes passed.

Martha stood abruptly, having heard what sounded like the front door being opened, thoughtlessly rubbing her left arm as she did – she often felt prickling sensations that seemed like pins and needles being jabbed at her if she held her arm too stiffly when trying to write more precisely than usual. It was far too early for the church service to have ended and the orphans and staff to have returned. Her hand tingled when she pressed the palm against the doorknob and leaned into the corridor – listening for further sounds. However, as she heard none, she quickly shut the door and turned to walk back to her desk. That was when she noticed the box of toddler's blocks that the Matron had left by the door. The doctor, never one to allow a potential danger – for example from tripping – remain in her infirmary, quickly picked the lidless box up by its handles and began to walk back to her desk.

When the pain hit, it came suddenly.

Martha gasped sharply, her eyes widening, as her grip loosened in shock. Somewhat artfully, the blocks were first thrown upward, and only afterward fell to the floor around her, by their container's collision with her jerking knee. The feeling was quite significantly more potent than taking a sharp knock to the humorous bone, yet could be understandably likened to it. The doctor was, in fact, quite oblivious to how pale her complexion had quickly become.

The blocks felt uncomfortable beneath her body – one shaped like a square-based pyramid was digging into her neck rather deeply, staining the pale wood red – but she was quite beyond noticing; so completely was she overwhelmed by the pain throughout her left arm as she stared – wide eyed and unseeing – at the white ceiling. Somewhere between the first wave of pain and the second, far more powerful, wave, she had fallen to the floor. She was not even aware that she had screamed. There was a thundering noise that seemed almost constant, but she couldn't tell if it was more than just the sound of her blood rushing through her veins and along the sides of the pyramid.

"TOM!" she called out, the command a broken noise with the pained screaming and desperation from which it was made. "STOP!"

Tommy, who had moved when he heard her scream and fall and was staring – terrified – at her through the slight crack he had made by opening her door, appeared to be on the verge of tears. "I don't know how!" he cried, in reply, the fear, frustration, confusion and sheer panic all readily audible in his tone.

"Imagine," she choked out. Martha gasped sharply, her body jerking from the confusing messages given by the left arm's nerves and her body's desperation to keep herself breathing, and her back arched briefly off the ground, as if trying to escape the sharp wooden blocks beneath her. "Imagine," she choked out around her own spit and blood – wondering when she had bit her tongue so hard – as a dribble of the pinkish bubbly froth trailed down her chin. "The nerves… not moving… hold them still. …Stop…. the vibrations." The thundering in her ears had changed, had she been capable thereof she might have wondered if it represented a new area of blood loss changing the pressure flow. At some point she had rolled onto her side, leaning protectively over the arm in pain. She could only gasp, tears of sheer pain seeping out from the utmost sides of her eyes.

Eleanor Cole was standing in the doorway, staring at her in horror.

"OUT!" Martha roared, pointing with her good arm. "GET OUT!"

…and Eleanor, too shocked for words, stumbled backward from the room and pulled the door shut after her, shaking the whole time.

As the pain began to abate, the doctor weakly managed to raise her upper body somewhat off the ground, held up by her injured arm as the other uncurled itself from the position it had returned to once Eleanor had fled.

Her hand grasped the square-based pyramid, with its red stained tip, as she struggled to keep herself up. A few sputtered, sob-like breaths escaped her.

* * *

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the edge of the desk. It had been… a miscalculation. Not, by any means, a minor miscalculation, but a miscalculation nonetheless. Her shoulders were hunched – which was very poor posture on her part – and she was sitting on the edge of the desk itself.

Tom had cried himself to sleep. Considering the boy in question, that was highly unusual, but as the tears had begun in a moment of shock – when she had turned toward him and he had seen the gash on her neck and the bloodstained block in her hand – rather than the sort of emotional turmoil (such as guilt, relief and sorrow) that usually took some actual cognitive effort before they could be (even unintentionally) achieved, it was not totally unexpected. Tommy Riddle rarely cried, but when he did it was as if his eyes were merely tributaries of the Amazon, for all the water that flowed from them. Martha brought an abrupt end to that particular train of thought. She most certainly did not need the memory of her childhood visit to the mighty river connected to two dark-haired little boys.

Eleanor was staring at her, having entered moments before, or – more accurately – at the white bandage wrapped around her neck and mostly concealed by the pale blue silk scarf she had wrapped around it.

"It was an accident," Eleanor murmured, but as a statement or acknowledgment, not a question.

"I presumed that it would be like a weak muscle in need of training to gain strength," the doctor said, merely stating facts. "I was wrong."

The younger Mrs. Cole was standing just inside the infirmary door, as if fearful of moving further in.

"He frightens me," she said, looking at the peacefully sleeping child – who was curled up on the bed, around his toy monkey – with tearstains on his cheeks. They both knew that when she said 'he' she meant 'what he can do'.

"It was superficial," the doctor replied, tilting her head to emphasize the bandage. Then she stood. "It is past the time for luncheon, sustenance should be procured for the child."

Eleanor stared at her, blankly, for several moments, feeling the skin at her temples pulled back tightly from the slight expression she seemed to almost wear and the width to which her eyes had opened. "…Martha," she said slowly, "you are wearing trousers."

Martha nodded gracefully to her flummoxed colleague as she exited the room and Eleanor, stunned by the doctor's utter lack of propriety, followed after; alternately muttering, babbling and exclaiming upon how such behaviour could negatively affect the children, the reputation of the orphanage and the doctor herself. Nevertheless, her thoughts were no longer on the little boy curled up asleep on an infirmary bed and Martha, in her own – expressionless – way, seemed smug.

* * *

Tom didn't understand the whispers. There had been whispers on the street and there were whispers outside of the 'zoological gardens' as well. There were also a lot of adults shaking their heads and pointing. Most of them were people Tommy didn't know, but Miss Hackett had been disgusted when she saw what Martha was wearing and had sputtered at her and sworn she wouldn't speak to her again. Tommy thought it was highly amusing that the doctor had simply raised an eyebrow in response and asked if she was jealous. Miss Hackett had turned a funny reddish colour in the face at that point, which looked silly against her yellow hair.

Mrs. Cole had tried to explain to him that Martha was a girl and girls weren't supposed to wear trousers; boys were supposed to wear trousers – the frail old lady had been very adamant about that – but Tom had pointed out that _that_ was very silly because Martha wasn't a boy _or_ a girl: she was a doctor.

Tommy wasn't exactly certain what had happened after that, except that Martha had promised to 'explain' and had taken him for a walk. 'Explain', apparently, meant buying him an ice cream – strawberry – from the nice man with the big table on wheels and changing the subject. The walk had, at first, led them away from the entrance to the gardens and only after the other's from the orphanage had clearly begun to enter had they doubled back. Tom wasn't precisely certain how Martha could escape the responsibility of watching over more charges than just himself, but before she had taken him away from the others, he had seen many of the older children dividing themselves up into groups with three or four younger charges of their own. The doctor, it seemed, was quite content to take him away from the others, although she frowned at the tense silence that had existed between the two Mrs. Cole's for approximately a month when she did.

Tom really hadn't thought that much of it, he was far too busy staring around himself in awe and licking his ice cream absentmindedly to do so. The entire party, although Tom and Martha had only entered the Zoological Gardens after all of the others, had begun at the south entrance, but where all of the others from the orphanage immediately rushed off to find the Parrot House – which Martha said was older than she was – the doctor had urged him to the left, following instead the less populated route toward the grand Reptile House, which had only been completed in 1927 and of which construction had begun – Martha said – the year Tom had been born. Tom had pointed with delight and made all the noises of exclamatory pleasure and surprise that could be expected, from a child his age, at the sight of the animals that had been carved on the door frame by George Alexander. In that moment, he truly and innocently appeared and acted his age.

To Tom's surprise, Martha laid a hand gently on his shoulder as they entered the Reptile House. He looked up at her, licking his ice cream thoughtfully, but the woman said nothing. She merely followed as he wandered from enclosure to enclosure, watching the unmoving reptiles in fascination.

"Must you project, so? It hurts my head."

Tom jerked backwards, shocked by the hissing voice.

"Humans," another, deeper, voice spoke up seemingly from across the room. "They never teach their young manners."

Tom looked around, wide eyed.

Martha stared down at him in concern, before glancing shrewdly between the serpent the boy had stopped in front of and the wide-eyed child.

"H-hello?" Tom asked, his voice shaking.

Martha's eyes widened and one eyebrow jerked upward so far and so fast as to be almost comical, especially as she slightly wrinkled her nose in the same instant.

"It talks!" a third voice, younger than the other two, exclaimed.

"Making it stop is the problem," the first snake – a female, by the sound of it – replied dryly.

"Perhaps if the older bi-peds could talk, rather than just chattering like all other dumb animals, they would have taught it to be polite," said the second voice, which was old and rather masculine.

"I like the bi-peds," the youngest voice – most definitely a little female – replied stubbornly. "They feed us nice mice! And when I have offspring I will teach them to like the bi-peds too!"

Tom stared at the tiny serpent behind the next glass panel, overwhelmed by the impression that she had just folded her arms across her chest stubbornly and punctuated her statement with a single, firm, nod. The first of which even Tommy knew was impossible, but the second… Tom glanced up at the doctor, who was leaning over him slightly.

"Intriguing," she murmured, nodding her head ever so slightly, several times, as if to herself.

Tom, followed by Martha, moved slowly – cautiously – over to the home of the tiny serpent who had spoken so enthusiastically. His mouth moved soundlessly as he tried to figure out the words on the sign by the glass.

"Boa Constrictor Constrictor," Martha murmured next to his ear, "The Red-Tailed Boa, most commonly known as the Boa Constrictor. She's harmless."

Encouraged by this, Tom edged closer to the little serpent. He had the distinct impression that the little snake would have wrinkled her nose if she could, although all she had done was to rear back and push herself as far forward as she could – so that their eyes were level – as if to see him better.

"Your scales are terribly dull," she said finally. "Are you ill?"

In spite of her fairly British phrasing, Tom thought she sounded very foreign (or, at least, what the staff of the orphanage referred to as 'sounding foreign').

"She is," the old male voice said.

Tom looked across the – mostly devoid of humans – room.

A snake with iridescent scales had regally raised its head and was calmly observing him. It hissed, in its deep and solemn tones, "She was brought here from Brazil. I am from China."

"…Hello?" Tom said, uncertainly.

"Tom, you are hissing," Martha murmured.

"I am?" the boy in question asked.

"Yes, ya are," another voice interrupted, apparently amused. The thickly accented voice belonged to a fourth, brightly coloured, serpent, whose home was next to that of the older male. "It's helpin' ya ta talk ta us, ain't it? Ya need ta learn to only project when yer hissin', though. Ya make an awful din otherwise, ya see."

Martha, aware only that something was being said; but not what, merely explained the basics of what the written information said to the boy when he looked up at her with a plaintive and curious yet blank expression. "That's Micrurus Tener – the Texas Coral Snake – and the one with the iridescent scales is Xenopeltis Unicolor; the Sunbeam Snake," she murmured. "The one you were speaking to before is a Vipera Berus, the Common European Adder, I believe they are known for their timidity. She may be shy."

"Projecting?" Tom asked the brightly coloured – and apparently American – snake.

"Yeah. Ya understand me, don't cha? See, I'm thinkin' at you, and by hissin' I'm makin' ya hear me. But if ya aren't careful, you'll have everyone hearin' what yer thinkin'. Ya got ta learn ta control yer thinky thoughts," he replied.

"Thinky thoughts," repeated the female Adder, her clipped tones betraying obvious disgust.

"Least I'm willin' to talk ta people," the snake from Texas said, his accent somehow managing to thicken further. "That's all I'm sayin'."

The old Sunbeam Snake seemed to clear his throat. "Children," he said severely. To Tom, however, he added, "When one lives near those bi-peds who project somewhat, but cannot understand without great effort or speak at all, one tends to pick up on the inflections they mentally use. Their accent, if you will."

Tom recoiled slightly, having finished his ice cream while listening to the serpents argue, and leaned closer to Martha – almost as if trying to avoid the reprimand. "May we leave now?" he asked her in a small voice.

The doctor looked at him, as if evaluating him, for a moment, then nodded sharply. Moments later she held one of his little hands in her own, while her other gingerly touched the small wound she had sustained on her neck the day before.

Tom frowned up at her as they left the Reptile House, ignoring the Coral Snake's comment of "Aw, now see; ya made them leave!" and the Adder's snapped reply of "Oh, would you _be quiet_?" and what sounded distinctly like the little Boa giggling.

"Does it still hurt?" Tom asked as he pulled at the doctor's hand, urging her to hurry so that he could see the lions – something he had been waiting all day for.

"Somewhat," the doctor replied mildly. She paused for a moment, as if searching for the appropriate words. "I am… pleased, with the results of our experiment."

"I'm not," Tom replied petulantly. "You were hurt."

Martha raised an eyebrow.

"You were hurt and I couldn't make it stop," Tom said, voicing his clear frustration with his inability to make his gift do what he wanted it to.

"That will come," the doctor replied, "with practise."

Tom looked up at her, wide eyed.

"While I have no …abilities of my own," she extrapolated, "I would be willing to teach and aid you in your experimentation."

"Even though I hurt you?" Tom asked.

"I would not have said it if I did not mean it," Martha replied coolly, raising an eyebrow.

Tom smiled brilliantly up at her. "Can we see the lions now?" he pleaded, excitedly.

"It's 'may we', and yes; we may," the doctor replied.

Tom's smile morphed into a grin as he grabbed her hand and began attempting to pull her along the path to the Lion House.

* * *

**To Shawna:** I cannot say how pleased I am that chapter twenty-two exceeded your expectations. I can only hope that it has not been to bothersome for you to be anxious for Tom and kept waiting so long for an update. Unfortunately university forced me to put this project on hold for a little while.

**A/N: **I normally don't post the information from the fact finders I put up on LJ and IJ here, but in this case I felt it was necessary to put up my explanation for Parseltongue. As a side note: all information about the London Zoological Gardens (later known as the London Zoo) should be accurate, except that of which snake species lived there. All the species I mention were discovered in the 1800s, so it is feasible that they are present. Also, please pardon the way I have written the accepts. I'm afraid I'm quite useless at it.

**Parsel-Problems – or, What The Heck Was That Snake On About? Making Snake-Speech Logically Possible: **J.K. Rowling, in her fantasy world, gives us the language of Parseltongue – speakers being known as Parselmouths – and it is implied that this is a) a family trait, passed on from parent to child, b) very rare, and c) mainly associated with dark wizards and evil people. J.K.R. also gives us other information on the language:

1) Harry has to listen carefully to hear the difference between Parseltongue and English,

2) Snakes can hear this language,

3) Snakes can wink to show they know you're a Parselmouth before you say anything (the boa winked before Harry started talking),

4) Some people can understand Parseltongue and be unable to speak it (Dumbledore),

5) Snakes can hold conversations through thick glass (Harry and the boa again),

6) Snakes talk to themselves (probably, unless Tom/Ginny told the basilisk to mutter to itself while on the hunt so Harry would get a clue…and since Tom wanted Harry to go into the chamber so he could be killed, that's possible),

7) It is possible to mimic Parseltongue well enough that you can fool a password-locked 'door' into opening (Ron, in Deathly Hallows),

8) It sounds awful to non-Parselmouths (Harry, on Ron, in Deathly Hallows),

9) You can stop being a Parselmouth (if the piece of a Parselmouth's soul that's been hiding in you gets kicked out, Harry in DH),

10) Snakes who are raised in captivity (in Britain) can speak the Parseltongue equivalent of well-known Portuguese words (the boa, again).

That's an awful lot more about the language and how it works than we generally realise we've been given. Now: we all know there are some basic problems with this.

I) Snakes don't have ears – not the way we do – they 'hear' (that is: they feel) through vibrations in the ground: in other words, it doesn't matter if you're speaking English or Parseltongue if you, and the snake, don't have your heads on the ground to make it possible to hear each other and even then it's the vibrations, in the ground, not the air-wave made sounds that we hear.

II) Snakes don't have eyelids, either. They have hard, clear scales over their eyes to protect them; these go white when they're about to shed their skin, making them temporarily blind. Snakes can't wink.

III) A snake raised in Britain is not going to know Portuguese words. A snake, since they have their own language, isn't going to know human words like "amigo" anyway.

IV) Nor (without explanation) would anything be able to know what language you can speak before you speak it.

V) Non-Parselmouths hear Parseltongue as a horrible and unpleasant sound. But if you listen to a real snake hiss, it's actually not that unpleasant and certainly not horrible (though this description of Parseltongue could be that way because Ron was struggling to make the right sounds) – I'd know, I've held snakes before… I've also had plenty of hissing cats: the cats sounded worse.

VI) Many snakes spend so little time around each other that they don't really need a language.

VII) Many snakes are only found in certain areas of the world – therefore, if Parseltongue worked like a human language, there should be variants and dialects all over the show, but there has never been any mention of this.

VIII) One of the most social snake species are a type of Sea Snake. They are the ones who would be most likely to need a language, but they can't hiss all the time or they'd get water in their mouths.

My first conclusion was that Parseltongue – to be in any way feasible – would have to be a telepathic language. There is evidence to support this:

A) Harry has to listen to tell the difference – and when he does he hears hissing and talking, not one or the other.

B) Since snakes can't wink (and generally don't speak Portuguese in English speaking countries), it would explain how the boa managed it.

This also would get around the whole "snakes can't hear" problem outlined above.

A telepathic language (especially if say, a person had a natural inclination to it) would make Occlumency harder – and visa versa. Which, considering Harry's difficulties, could make sense. Yet it would probably make Legilimency easier (Lord Voldemort speaks Parseltongue and is known to be very talented in Legilimency, Dumbledore is a good Legilimens and can understand Parseltongue but can not speak it, and Harry accidentally broke into Snape's mind during occlumency lessons – to Snape's surprise).

But there are also problems with this:

1) Many times we have reference to people (non-Parselmouths) hearing hissing when Parseltongue is spoken.

2) Dumbledore, regardless of his talents in Legilimency, can not speak Parseltongue – only understand it.

3) Lord Voldemort, a natural Parselmouth, is also known to be good at Occlumency.

4) The Chamber of Secrets is password-locked in Parseltongue – and Ron managed an equivalent sound to open it.

So, I suggest a compromise.

Many types of magic (and our 'muggle' myths about magic) suggest that focus is needed to accomplish things. Theoretically, then, Parseltongue could be a telepathic language that – for Parselmouths, if not actual snakes – one needs to focus to direct: hence the hissing.

The idea, therefore, would be that Parselmouths have more trouble learning Occlumency (but that it is possible) and are more inclined to Legilimency, because their minds are naturally more open than those of other people: which is why they can speak to snakes. The hissing focuses their natural projection of (for lack of a better term) their inner dialogue or forefront thoughts. What they want to say. Hissing would be the focusing method that allows snakes and Parselmouths to project directly at one person or at many, and therefore not show everything they think to the world. This would also explain why such solitary animals need a language – they, possibly, are communicating by focusing on the projection of a nearby snake and hissing (seemingly to themselves, or possibly not hissing at all – but I'd assume only real snakes could do that) to focus on where they want to send their message.

This would also explain hearing both speaking and hissing at once, as well as how a snake can wink (this would be the snake scanning the basic linguistic centres of the Parselmouth's mind and approximating a human response mentally), speak through thick glass and know when another Parselmouth is around (like the boa did – Harry wouldn't realise he was projecting, so the boa would immediately take notice). Therefore, presumably, young serpents (and young Parselmouths) would not yet know how to control their projection and would be seen as very loud. Serpentine parents would probably have to teach their young how to do this.

"But wait!" you cry. "We all know snakes don't take care of their young once they've hatched!"

True. However, many snakes watch over their eggs for a time, moreover the eggs take a while to develop in the female's body before they are laid and viviparous snakes (those that give birth to live young) keep them inside until they are born – at which point they break out of their soft egg sack (similar to what kittens come out in, only snakes don't need help getting out) and are ready to go. So the serpents would have time to teach their young, especially those species that nest in large groups. Furthermore, many reptiles have been known to make noises to their eggs – and similar response noises come out of the eggs!

This would make Parseltongue not one gift, but two: the very 'open' mind to hear what is being said (which a skilled Legilimens could mimic) and the ability to perform the focus hissing without drawing breath. In fact, it could be that someone who was had a very strong gift of Parseltongue – or was a snake – might be able to focus without it, if they also imagined themselves doing the focus hissing: it would sound silent to the outside world, but those who could understand would here both the meaning and the focus hiss (Tom, I have no doubt, would never get to that stage).

This is the basic theory that I am going to follow for my portrayal of Parseltongue, however (as snakes indubitably have a very different way of looking at things).


	24. Lucy Blackwood: Sept 19 and 21, 1931

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

A/N: My apologies to anyone who has previously read or commented on this chapter, I discovered a few minor errors which needed correcting and had to take it down and re-post it. The problem with the dating has now been fixed. Once again, my most sincere apologies.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Lucy Blackwood**

Lucy visited the orphanage every second Saturday. Excluding, of course, all those in which she had some other appointment which – as the wife of Sir John Blackwood – she had to attend. Sometimes she had even been known to simply fail to turn up at such social occasions and, at such times, could instead be found in the orphanage courtyard – on days of fair weather – or in Jonathan Stone's attic classroom – on those days on inclement weather – teaching the orphans about the joys of art. On more than one occasion her behaviour had caused quite the shocked reaction from her fellow members of high society (a group which, as Lucy was always amused to note, included the ever vitriolic Doctor Martha Elder, who rarely had anything good to say about others) and the gossip about her improper behaviour had slowly begun to replace the whispered comments about her poor breeding and avarice-driven marriage.

It was on one of those Saturdays – in fact, it was the second week in a row that she had visited – that Lucy Blackwood could be found in the orphanage courtyard, painting – seemingly idly – on her canvas while the orphans in her art 'class' struggled to properly capture the toy, which she had placed on a box in the centre of their circle, with their pencils. Lucy herself was humming, as she focused her attention half on the children she was teaching (especially since James kept attempting to stab Jennifer in the arm with his pencil, when he thought no one was looking) and half on the scene on the front steps of the orphanage, where the orphanage doctor sat – her poise shockingly informal, considering her usual attitude – with one of the younger orphans, a dark haired boy, curled up next to her as they worked through a book. Lucy fleetingly wondered if her own little boy would have dark hair like his.

"Is it true?"

Lucy blinked and looked over at one of the boys on her left, who had drawn a rather impressive collection of extremely inappropriate sketches of what appeared to be the older girls in the orphanage (he would indubitably be in a significant amount of trouble when the staff saw the images, no matter how talented he appeared to be). Without meaning to, she realised, she had failed to continue to listen to the conversation of her little group.

"Is what true?" she asked.

"That the sailors really danced on the ships during the mutiny!" Jennifer replied eagerly, before the boy who asked the question could.

Simon Hughes, who was walking by at the time, grinned at them. "Only on the _Rodney_," he said.

The entire group, Lucy, girls and boys alike, giggled.

Simon gave Lucy an appraising look, feeling that – somehow – there was something unusual about her behaviour.

"Are you well, Lucy?" he asked slowly.

Lucy stared at his for a few moments in silence, her eyes seemingly vacant with the sort of far away expression that commonly denotes that one's mind is on other things. "I am," she said, surprisingly simple and sincere in her tone. "I'm marvellous." She smiled elatedly and appeared to be practically overfilled with happiness and excitement, which was visible in the tenseness of her body – especially her arms – as if she were forcibly restraining herself from hugging the man she used to work with. "Simon," she said, "My husband and I …are to be parents."

There was a crash.

Lucy and Simon looked between the easel that had been flung to the ground in a fit of temper and the orphan who was crossly stomping back inside the building.

Simon blinked. Dazedly, he said, "I believe you have approximately five minutes before everyone knows about it."

"Oh dear."

* * *

Martha frowned at the boy who appeared as if he were going to attempt to push past her until he realised exactly who he was approaching and carefully edged his way around the doctor and the toddler by her side. Tom, on the other hand, did not look up from the book he was staring at.

"Nothing's happening," he complained.

"We are still at the explanatory stage," Martha replied coolly. "Nothing is supposed to happen."

Tom gave her an annoyed look.

The doctor, in turn, looked blankly at him, then tapped the open book in her lap.

Tommy glared at her.

Martha, however, merely placed a hand on his head and turned it to face the book.

Tom's left hand immediately lashed out to grab the hand on his head, while he glowered at her. When he saw that she was almost amused by his actions, he attempted to distract her. "What are they?" he asked, pointing at the illustrations on the page.

"They are molecules," Martha replied. Noting his baffled expression, she extrapolated, "A molecule is made up of a number of different atoms, which are interconnected. Atoms – and therefore molecules – are the basic element that all things are made up of. In essence, they are the building blocks of all things that are."

Tom blinked up at her, confused.

The doctor closed her eyes for a moment, as if suppressing a sigh, then spoke, "Consider the toy blocks that yourself and the other children in the nursery play with. When they are put together in a certain way, you can make a tower – put other blocks together in a different way; and you can make a wall, or a house, or a mess. Each individual block, in this situation, represents an atom: when they are put together in different ways, instead of making walls and towers, they form different kinds of molecules. Do you follow me?"

"I think so…" Tom replied slowly. "Where are they?"

Martha blinked, suddenly realising that expecting the boy to understand the entire matter from her brief explanation had been expecting too much. Had she been a more expressive person, she might have pinched the bridge of her nose to alleviate the (currently hypothetical) headache which was threatening to become a rather irksome part of her reality.

"Ma'tha?" Tom asked again. "Where are they?"

"Everywhere," the doctor replied. "With the exception of inside vacuums, molecules – and therefore atoms – are everywhere. Billions and billions of molecules built up upon each other form every human," her eyes narrowed as she further extrapolated, "every _finger_, every book, every pebble – every _grain of sand _is made up of vast numbers of molecules."

Tom's brow furrowed, his lips became pursed and his nose pulled up – it was a childish display of confusion and thoughtfulness which was, undeniably, adorable. "There….fore," he began, struggling slightly with the doctor's vocabulary, "a va-acu-um is a place where everything… isn't?"

The doctor inclined her head, slightly.

"Are we in a vacuum?" Tom inquired, curious and wide eyed.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Why would you ask that?" she replied, mystified by the small child's thought process.

"We have air all around us," Tom pointed out, as if this were perfectly logical.

"Tom," Martha explained calmly, "air is not a vacuum."

Tom gazed at her, with the sort of expression on his face that a person would normally wear when they are conveying the unspoken universal truth that their companion is an idiot.

"How could a gust of wind – of moving air – steal a hat or tug at the edges of one's coat if it were nothing?" the doctor asked rhetorically. "The air is made up of molecules, just like everything else. They are simply more widely spaced than in other places. The density of molecules in air is less than that of molecules in dense objects such as you or me."

Tommy was silent for a moment, his face turned away as he considered this new information. "…What _is_ in air?" he asked finally.

Martha paused for a moment, as if trying to recall the exact details required to answer the question – or, perhaps, attempting to discern the best way of explaining to the child without causing further confusion. "Air," she finally said, "is made mostly of a substance called Nitrogen. There is also: a large amount of Oxygen, a reasonable amount of Argon and trace amounts of many other elements, including one element known as Hydrogen."

Tom's expression at that moment betrayed the fact that he was not at all certain he ought to have asked, and that he was rather torn between bafflement at all the unknown terms and curiosity as to their meanings.

Martha evidently recognised this, as she apparently took pity on the child and pulled from one of her pockets a tiny glass jar, which fit in the palm of her hand. "I want you to fill this with water."

"There's a sink in the infirmary," Tom replied, raising one eyebrow as he looked at the tall – but tiny – jar, with the mark of the Ball Brother's Company in the glass on one of its sides. It was about equal in height to Martha's tallest fingers.

"We already know that you can do things that ought to be scientifically impossible, or would take other people tools, with your mind," Martha said, choosing to ignore his comment. "Now it is time to see if you are capable of using it to make controlled changes, rather than just the wild outbursts that come with your emotional… excesses."

Tom looked between the doctor's face and the jar in her hand, his expression both shrewd and calculating. He was well aware that Martha Elder rarely spoke if it was unnecessary for her to do so – at least, that she would not divulge more than was necessary – and that, therefore, everything she had explained so far had _something_ to do with how it was she expected him to fill the jar with water. Thence came the shrewdness of his expression. It was from attempting to figure out how, precisely, the pieces of the puzzle – the jar, the illustrations, the idea of molecules and the composition of air – fit together that the calculating nature of his gaze came.

"Air into water," he murmured to himself. "How?" Tommy demanded, although, perhaps, 'insistently and pleadingly inquired' would be the better term.

"Water," Martha said, pointing to one of the illustrations in the open book with her free hand, "is two parts Hydrogen and one part Oxygen."

Tom's eyes seemed to light up, metaphorically speaking, as understanding dawned on him and he graced the doctor with a wide, wild grin and then scooted closer to her; thus making it easier for him to see the illustrations in the book. Cautiously, aware that the woman generally avoided touching and being touched, he slid an arm around her lower back; clutching at her blouse with his little hand.

Martha glanced down at him and raised an eyebrow, but she did not remove the little child's arm.

Tommy leaned over and stared down at the illustration she had previously gestured toward. The matter seemed simple enough. "You want me to take two of those," he murmured, the words somewhere between a statement and an inquiry, as he gestured to one part of the illustration, "and attach them to one of those," he finished, pointing to another part of the illustration.

Martha nodded.

"But I can't see them!" Tommy exclaimed, frustrated.

"You could not see my nervous system, either," Martha pointed out, "but you were successful on that occasion."

Tom twitched. "I hurt you," he muttered.

"You did not intend to. Your abilities were out of control."

Tom scowled. "I don't like out of control," he replied. "It's frightening."

"And that is why you are studying the making of small alteration," the doctor stated, soothingly.

Tommy nodded, somewhat hesitantly, and took to looking intently at the jar; imagining, as he did, the molecules – as they had been illustrated – and trying to move them as he required. He remained like that for a long time.

Finally, after what could easily have been a half hour of silence between the two, Tom pulled back. "It's not working," he informed the doctor, softly.

Martha frowned at him, then quickly opened the lid, just a crack, and slid two of her fingers into the jar. After a few moments, she pulled them out and quickly shut the jar again. She held up her hand, the sunlight shining down on them revealing a few tiny water droplets clinging to her index and middle fingers. "Considering how little actual hydrogen there is in the atmosphere, let alone how much would be inside a jar full of air, and that you have only just begun to practise this, the creation of a few droplets is an astounding achievement."

The awed look on Tom's face was enough to make her crack a smile.

Martha firmly placed the jar in Tom's little hands. "Continue," she instructed him. "I shall return shortly."

The doctor stood, sharply nodding to the boy before disappearing into the building.

* * *

The sharp clack of a lady's heeled shoes echoed throughout the corridor, as their owner progressed along their path. The shoed feet paused for a moment outside a door – their owner indubitably listening to the row occurring on the other side – before one kicked the closed-over door open and they proceeded to carry their owner into the room.

Martha Elder leaned against the wall, just next to the doorframe, folded her arms, crossed one of her legs over the other – emphasising, perhaps by accident, that she (unlike most of her co-workers) could still afford stockings – and waited.

"BUT IT ISN'T FAIR!" the boy screamed.

Eleanor Cole frowned down at him, unmoved. "She has no previous duty to you, young man. You will go out there and apologise for your behaviour."

"NO, I SHAN'T!" the boy replied, his voice somewhat hoarse from shouting. "IT ISN'T FAIR! SHE DIDN'T _NEED _A BABY! SHE COULD HAVE TAKEN ONE OF US! SHE SAID SHE _CARED_!"

There was a tense, furious silence in the room as the last echoes of the orphan's shouting dissipated. The boy seemed to run out of energy as he realised that the younger Mrs. Cole was not, in fact, going to yell back at him. Instead she stood, silent, her folded arms hiding the slight tensing of her fingers as they dug into and released their hold on the arms themselves, over and over again. Her expression, although it seemed blank in many ways, also seemed to radiate a cold sort of fury.

"Did it ever occur to you, young man," she inquired icily, "that everyone who lives in this building is living on the charity of the Blackwoods? Did you ever stop to consider that Lucy and her husband are _already_ responsible for everyone here? That they have, essentially, adopted all of you?"

"BUT THEY DON'T _LOVE _US!" the orphan screamed in response, his fury returning.

"THEY FEED YOU!" Eleanor snapped, her patience finally wearing too thin. "THEY FEED YOU, CLOTHE YOU, EDUCATE YOU AND KEEP A ROOF OVER YOUR HEADS! IS THAT _NOT ENOUGH_?"

The boy, for a moment, seemed at a loss for words. Unfortunately, he found them again soon enough. "I HATE YOU!" he screamed, the conviction and loathing in his voice quite apparent, and – without pausing or even looking around – he fled the room, directly past the unnoticed doctor, and soon his footsteps could be heard as his ran heavily up the stairs. He never once looked back, and, so, he missed the stricken look that flashed across Eleanor's face.

The woman stood for a moment, seemingly lost, all too aware of the silence which – in juxtaposition to all the noise from moments before – felt somehow louder and empty. The young Mrs. Cole's expression was unusually open as she glanced around in front of her – where the boy had previously stood – almost vacantly. When she caught sight of the doctor's shoes and looked up, however, her expression hardened.

"What do you want?" she bit out.

"It must have been very hard for you to inform the boy of the facts," the doctor stated emotionlessly, "having yourself grown up here."

"Is that meant to be a comfort?" Eleanor asked; her tone both sharp and disjointed.

"Merely an observation," the doctor replied. "Nevertheless, you were correct. It is our job only to keep them alive and healthy. If they wish to be doted upon, they ought to work harder toward being preferable for adoption."

"What would you know about it?" Eleanor snapped. "You've never been told you weren't wanted!"

"On the contrary, Ma'am," the doctor replied, still without tone and with a blank face; although she had raised an eyebrow, as she turned to walk out the door, "I have been told that every day since I began working here."

The door closed with a surprisingly final 'click'.

* * *

Panting slightly from having run up several flights of stairs while in tears, the boy slammed the attic door shut and leaned against it, bleakly looking around Mr. Stone's classroom.

"This room is already occupied," an adult voice told him bitterly. "Please go find somewhere else to weep profusely. There is quite enough misery in here without an additional person to add to it."

The orphan turned, in surprise, to find his teacher leaning against the chalk board; his reddened and somewhat puffy eyes acting as the only testament to what he had been doing before the boy entered.

"S-sir?" the boy asked, startled and concerned by his teacher's odd behaviour. "Are you… quite well?"

Jonathan Stone smiled bitterly. "I am… not nearly as well as I ought to be," he replied, "and far more disturbed than I have any right to be."

The orphan gave his teacher a wary look, having never seen such a human side to this particular caretaker before, and – hesitantly – spoke again. "Sir?" he murmured. "What are you doing?"

"I am being very foolish, young man," the teacher replied, his tone surprisingly calm and oddly warm... almost accepting. "I am being very foolish."

Cautiously, the boy moved across the room to join his teacher, gently placing a hand on the man's arm; although he knew the gesture to be out of place. "Miss Hackett once told me," the boy began, still hesitant, "that it was better to be foolish together, because then – at least – you weren't alone."

Mr. Stone made a soft noise, almost a pensive sound. "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "she was right." As he raised the bottle he held to his lips again, he looked over it – to the children's art on the wall – and gave a soft, mirthless chuckle.

* * *

"Martha! Oh, Martha!" a voice called from behind the doctor as she made for the front door. "Martha dear, do slow down!"

With a nearly inaudible sigh, the doctor straightened her shoulders and turned back to acknowledge the orphanage matron. She could have simply kept walking, would – in fact – have preferred to, but her awareness of the matron's condition kept her from doing so. The woman was too liable to hurry to keep up and overexert herself. Doctor Elder did not speak as she turned to face her long time patient. She did not need to: the blank-faced, yet cold-eyed, expression she wore rendered speech quite redundant.

"I have news," the older woman said, apparently quite pleased and rather oblivious – perhaps pointedly so – to the doctor's annoyance. "You are aware that both Helen and Jonathan are qualified to teach in primary and secondary school classrooms, are you not?"

"I hadn't noticed," Doctor Elder replied, her raised eyebrow betraying the almost unnoticeable sneer in her tone.

"Helen's qualifications for teaching the little ones are less used," Samantha said, momentarily pausing to bring her handkerchief up in front of her mouth.

"Samantha," the doctor said, sharply. The concern in both her eyes and her tone was quite unmistakeable.

The elderly matron waved the handkerchief weakly. "I shall be quite well, dear, I assure you."

The disbelief on the doctor's face was evident.

"Jonathan and Helen have decided to exchange places next year," Samantha said. "It was going to be this year, but –"

"Why?" Martha inquired, sharply cutting off the matron's speech.

Samantha looked at her in surprise. "Really, dear, they have exchanged classes for the year before, you know."

"I am well aware of that," the doctor said, coolly. "Who is teaching which class of trained monkeys is of no concern to me, yet you are telling me. Why?"

Samantha frowned at her, silent for a moment. Finally, she spoke, her tone slow and cautious; "Do you remember the conversation we had in July? About how clever little Tommy Riddle is?"

Martha nodded stiffly.

"We have been debating the matter for some time," Samantha said, "and we have decided to take your advice."

"…pardon?" Martha inquired. She didn't even notice Eleanor walk by.

"The Blackwoods, Jonathan, Helen and I have arranged for Tom to be placed in Jonathan's Year Two class, even though the school year has already started."

"…I see," said the doctor.

* * *

"What are you do-ing?"

Tom didn't look away from the jar, even though Sammy's shadow was blocking the pretty light that had been shining through it. "Making water from air," Tom replied.

The six year old laughed. "That's stupid," he said condescendingly. "You can't do that."

"Martha says I can," Tom replied, as if that decided the matter. "Don't be asinine," he added, conversationally.

"I'm not _thick_, you dense _fecker!_"

"SAMUEL!" Eleanor snapped from behind them. "_Where _did you learn those words?"

"The older children," Samuel answered honestly.

Eleanor, however, was not listening. "And you, Tom Riddle, you should know better than to start fights!"

"Really, Eleanor," Lucy cut in as she crossed the courtyard. "I don't see how it can be his fault; Sammy approached him, not the other way around." When she was standing next to the youngest Mrs. Cole, she waved her finger in front of the other woman's face – a gesture Eleanor herself had become in the habit of doing – and spoke again. "It isn't very to yell at people, Eleanor, you should know that."

"It isn_'t_ nice to poke people in the eye, _either_," Eleanor spat, pulling away from the other woman's fingers; which were too close to her face for comfort. "If you want to _help_, take this one," she said, pushing Samuel toward Lucy, "and explain to him why he shouldn't use such words."

Lucy, surprised by this, nodded faintly and led Samuel away.

"And you," Eleanor quite nearly snarled, rounding on Tom; who sat wide-eyed, staring up at her, "what did you think you were _doing_, saying a thing like that?"

Tom blinked at her.

"Are you mad at him because he used words he is to young to understand, Eleanor?" Martha asked, standing in the doorway and making no secret of the fact that she had again been listening in on a private row. "Or are you still reacting to the experiment you walked in on?"

Eleanor gave her a cold look. "You are not a psychologist, _Doctor_. If you were it might have occurred to you that I am justifiably annoyed by your insistence on allowing him to run wild like a _barn yard animal_ just because you think he's special. For Lord's _sake, Martha_! If he had been a little more _careful_ and learned to behave like a _normal person_ there wouldn't have been a fight _at all_!"

Martha extended a hand, silently requesting the jar – which Tom reluctantly handed over – and observed her adult companion, considering what she had been told. Finally, she spoke: "You are concerned that he will be bullied. I had not expected you to be protective of a creature you obviously find distasteful. Interesting."

Eleanor made no response to that other than to roll her eyes and huff in exasperation.

* * *

Tom had been told off for playing with his food on the morning of September the twenty-first, although, Mary had been very understanding and kind about it because she knew he was nervous about attending non-nursery school classes for the first time in his life. Mr. Stone had personally come over and helped him find his way to the attic classroom – since Mary was apparently too busy with the other little ones, particularly Dennis, who was not pleased to be separated from his friend – along with twenty-nine other children; all of them aged between five and ten and a half.

The nine and ten year olds – who were apparently in something called 'Middle School' – immediately found their seats, divided by age, in the back of the brightly decorated and light filled classroom. Tommy, meanwhile, stared around himself in awe – he had never been allowed into the attic before. The seven and eight year olds took slightly more convincing to find their assigned seats and the five and six year olds had to be separated by the teacher and directed to their seats.

Tom stood at the door, where Mr. Stone had left him, holding his 'stationary'; which was actually very hard to keep in one place. From the back of the room, ten year old Johnny Smith smiled at him. Tom smiled back tentatively. Sammy, however, was staring at him in confusion.

Finally, Mr. Stone gestured for Tom to come up to the teacher's desk. Once Tom had obliged, Mr. Stone placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face the other students. "Class," he said, clearly using a tone meant specifically for teaching his class, "this is Tom Riddle, he's been placed in Year Two because he's unusually bright, but he's only four and a half, so I want you all to be nice and patient with him."

Then Mr. Stone walked Tom over to one of the desks in what was clearly the six year olds' area. He leaned down to speak to one of the six year old boys. "Charles? I want you to be Tom's friend, understand? He'll need someone to show him around and help him out."

The boy, Charles Alexander, nodded brightly; thrilled by the idea of having something important to do and a new friend. Tom, no longer so tentative now that he had a prospective friend to talk to, slid into the chair next to the older boy; as encouraged by Mr. Stone. Tom was not, however, as oblivious as presumed to the fact that Mr. Stone had purposefully placed Tom in the furthest possible Year Two seat from the now glowering Sammy.

Mr. Stone, meanwhile, had walked back up to the blackboard behind his desk and called for attention. "Good morning class, I am Mr. Stone," the majority of his speech was indubitably repeated from the first day of classes, for Tom's sake. "As you can see, the blackboard is divided into three sections," the teacher said, using a long stick to gesture to the three chalk-outlined 'sections' of the blackboard in turn, "and each section is for a specific set of year levels. If you are not in one of those years, you do not need to worry about what is written in that section. Years One and Two need to pay attention to the section on my left," _tap tap_, went the stick on the board as the man continued his speech, "while Years Three and Four need to pay attention to the central third," _tap, tap_, went the stick again, "and Years Five and Six need to pay attention to the section on the right," _tap, tap_, said the stick as the man paused in his speech. "Each section is divided again by half – the older years in each group must pay attention to the upper half," _tap, tap_, "of their section, the younger years the lower half." Tap, tap.

Tom noticed that the section he and Charles – Charlie, as the boy had insisted – had to pay attention to had very little actual writing on it, especially in comparison with all the higher year levels.

"Please take out your writing books and pencils, children," Mr. Stone commanded. "We shall begin with English."

Although Tom paid studious attention – and answered the question he had been given correctly – throughout English, he wasn't entirely certain that this 'school' experience was going to be as much fun as Mary had promised. The lowest pair of years – which Tom was in – were merely being asked to recognise and write up their letters, while the middle group were asked to recognise the "nons" and "werbs" of the sentence Mr. Stone had written in their section of the chalkboard and the very highest pair of years were given instruction sheets and told to "parse" – including the voices, which was odd because they were very quite students – the sentence on the board and then the set on their instruction sheets.

It was at that point that Charlie told Tom to stop paying attention to what everyone else was supposed to be doing. They ended up playing a very strange drawing game all over Charlie's hastily scribbled alphabet – which was nowhere near as neat as Tom's or the one on the board – throughout class. Tom decided he liked that part of 'school', even if Mr. Stone didn't.

**

* * *

A/N:** I would like to apologise for how long it has taken me to write this. I've been having some trouble (thankfully now over, it would seem) with a stalker and have, consequently, been rather distracted. On the upside, now that I know for a fact that I shall be graduating from OtagoU with my BA this December, I have more free time to devote to writing this series. On the other hand, I had also got original fiction to write and have committed myself to writing a Star Trek: Enterprise fanfiction series which may well rival this one in length.

**To Shawna:** I cannot begin to say how glad I am that you approve of my explanation for Parseltongue. Your delight and praise is – as always – thrilling. I also have to say that I'm terribly sorry that you've had to wait so long to see the first magic lesson. My sister would call it the work of the Ironic Overpower, since you said you couldn't wait. I hope it lives up to your expectations and the unintentional suspense of having to wait so long for it.


	25. Where's Mum? December 31st, 1931

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Where's Mum?**

It was Tommy's birthday. He was very proud to be a whole hand of fingers old – even though Martha had sneered at him when he told her and told him that opposable thumbs did not count as fingers, meaning that he was a year late in saying that. Tommy had simply shrugged and told her that, if that was true, she was a whole year late in congratulating him. It was also New Years Eve – and Tom was pleased to learn that his birthday was special for another reason – which meant that the orphanage workers were letting everyone have a glass of watered-down Coca-cola, to celebrate. They would have had hot coco, but Eleanor had pointed out that it would cost less to water down Coca-cola than to make nearly eighty separate mugs of hot chocolate milk and that the saved money was better spent ensuring the children had healthy food to eat more often, than it was on a one time frivolity. Tommy didn't mind having watered-down coke instead of hot coco. Being hungry didn't sound very appealing and Martha had given him some of the spicy biscuits her Dutch – whatever that was – relatives had sent her. They had arrived precisely on the fifth of December – although Tommy didn't know why this would be precise or why it pleased the doctor – and the doctor had been careful to keep them in a sealed container so that they would still be fresh later in the month.

She had apparently been in a giving mood that year, since Tom had been allowed to help her wrap a present for Lucy Blackwood – one of the doctor's old fur coats. Tommy wasn't sure that was a very thoughtful gift, though, since he'd heard that women wearing extravagant clothes like that were sometimes even being chased off the streets because everyone was in a depression. Tom didn't understand how being very sad and tired could make people chase better dressed people off the streets, but he pointed out the problem to the doctor anyway. Martha had simply smiled, somewhat mysteriously, and told him that she was well aware of that. Tom also knew that Martha had given Mary and the two Mrs. Cole's old fur coats of hers, as well, but that they had been given with a strict warning not to wear them outside if possible. Tommy hadn't even known that the doctor didn't like Lucy until he realized that she was the only one not given the warning.

Tommy had been very confused on Christmas Day, when he'd discovered Lucy, Mary and the younger Mrs. Cole sitting on the floor of the drawing room – all by the crackling fire, next to which the older Mrs. Cole sat in her (old) new coat in her favourite chair – taking apart their new (old) coats and sewing them up oddly. One of the Mr. Cole's told him that Lucy had come over to offer her new (old) coat – which she didn't need – as scrap material to make spare blankets for the orphanage from (since she couldn't be seen in something as unfashionable as a fur coat anymore, anyway) and the younger women had turned it into something of a group project. Only the older Mrs. Cole had kept her coat – and that, apparently, only after being threatened by the doctor with concerns for the elderly woman's failing health.

Tom thought the idea of turning sleeves into baby blankets was silly, which Martha seemed somewhat inclined to agree with – presumably, that is, since she kept muttering "Why did I even bother to wrap the blasted things?" under her breath. That, however, had been Christmas and that was over. Tommy's birthday, on the other hand, had only just begun.

Tom Riddle laughed as he raced down the corridor, chasing Dennis Bishop, who was giggling (a type of Dennis-behaviour which was less common than it had been before Tommy began attending big people's school). The staff and older children who were watching smiled, both pleased and made slightly melancholy by the simple fact that the children running and laughing in front of them could be so happy in the holiday season because they had no parents to still be missing from Christmas.

"Really, Tommy, why _are_ you chasing him?" one of the older girls asked, amused and not seriously looking for an answer.

Tom stopped and held out a dampened face cloth to her. "Denny's a fish-paste face," he solemnly informed her. Then he giggled. "I'm trying to catch my Denny an' clean 'im," he continued, accidentally slurring his words as he continued to giggle, "but he ran a-way from me!"

The girl – young woman, really – smiled down at him and took the proffered cloth. "Oh he did, did he?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," Tom answered, nodding his head excessively to make his point.

"We shall see about that, then, shan't we?" the girl continued, winking at him and hurrying off to catch up with the younger boy.

Tom watched her leave with a vague sort of smile and trotted happily off to the drawing room to lounge by the fire (if there was room – if there wasn't, he would lounge on people near the fire). When he entered the room, however, his attention was immediately caught by a small huddle of children – between the ages of eleven and eight, most likely – hiding behind one of the sofas.

"That's not true!" one of the younger girls exclaimed, not quite as quietly as she ought to have done.

"Shhh!" several of the others reprimanded her.

"It is!" the boy – one of the oldest in the group, and who had apparently been telling the story – replied. "It's why we're here."

"That's silly," one of the mildly older girls retorted with confidence. "My Mummy isn't dead. She's going to come back for me."

The blond boy who had been imparting the, apparently controversial, information gave the second girl (whose hair was a darker blond than that of the girl who had first spoken) a cruel and knowing smile. "Did she actually bring you here, herself? Or did she just disappear one day and leave you to be brought in by somebody else?"

The confident girl with the honey blond hair seemed shaken by this line of questioning. "A policeman brought me in, when Mummy left the hospital."

"Did you actually see her leave the hospital?" the blond boy asked; his tone triumphant.

"…No," the girl replied, beginning to sound truly worried.

The boy made a hand gesture which – when combined with the facial expression he wore – seemed to imply that this was absolute proof of what he had been saying and that was all there was to it.

Tom walked over to the group, so as to hear and see the conversation better (the two girls, however, he still could only see the backs of the heads of and their feet; which stuck out behind them while the girls rested on their knees and lower legs). His eyes – and, metaphorically speaking, ears – were wide with curiosity and his face was solemnly blank.

"Your Mummy didn't leave the hospital because she got better, Janice," the blond boy said, apparently relishing the chance to say what he was saying, "she left because she died."

"Where did she go from there?" a curious, freckled boy with reddish-brown hair asked.

None of them noticed little Tom standing behind them, still and silent.

"Where all people who die go, Tommy!" the blond boy informed his freckled companion. "In a box in a hole in the ground, where the worms eat you while you rot!"

This pronouncement was met by quiet noises of disgust and terror from his fascinated audience.

"Worms?" one of the boys asked, his voice sounding mildly strangled.

"Worms," the blond boy confirmed, "horrible, white, wriggly, squishy worms – hundreds of them."

This comment brought another collective shudder from his audience. Tom also shuddered. He'd seen worms in the dirt in the park enough times to know that what the boy was saying was disgusting. He hadn't even known the things _had_ mouths.

"How do they get in?" one dark haired girl asked, covering the natural openings of her body somewhat less subtly than she believed she was being.

"How do you think?" the blond boy replied, as if the answer should be painfully obvious. "You're body's rotting by then, isn't it? They get in through all the big gaping holes the rot and the fungi make! Not to mention the holes left by the bugs… maggots and the like. They'll eat you from the inside out, you know. The bugs will lay their eggs in the dead bodies and then the baby bugs hatch inside them and start eating all your internal organs." Akin to the rest of his proclamations, this last the boy said with evident relish and delight at his audience's horror.

Tom frowned as he began to back away from the group, suddenly feeling that the warmth of the fire was something he very much needed to feel better. What he'd heard was… scary. He didn't really know what "die" was, but the thought of being eaten by worms and buggies was terrifying.

As he thought back on some of the other things that had been said – and other conversations he had heard among the other orphans over his five years – and hugged himself slightly, Tommy came to a very important realisation. Everyone came from a mummy. Mummies were supposed to make you feel better …and Tom very much wanted his mummy.

Slowly, still hugging himself around the middle, Tom shuffled over to the floor in front of the fireplace, where the ladies (as the big people had described them) were sewing. His approach had gone unnoticed and so Tom quietly sat down next Mary's left elbow, folding his legs underneath him so that he was resting on his knees and lower legs, and gently nudged her arm with his head – unconsciously mimicking Chuck, the orphanage cat, in his efforts to gain attention and comforting touches.

Mary nearly gasped when she felt the unexpected touch and quickly looked down – expecting to find the old tomcat – to see Tom staring up at her with his dark blue eyes wide and filled with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Tommy, dear, I didn't see you. You oughtn't come up behind people like that without warning! What would have happened if I'd hit you with my elbow by accident?"

Tom was silent, as if her words had fallen on deaf ears. After a few moments in which he merely stared up at her, he reached out and placed a little hand on her red Christmas cardigan covered arm. "Mary?" he asked, his tone quiet, yet direct, straight to the point and oddly both resigned and vaguely mature to hear. "Where's Mum?"

The sudden silence in the sewing circle was jarring. All four of the women appear to be shocked by his question. Not by the question itself, not the content, just the asking; as if they were simply not expecting it to be asked at that point. It was unsurprising, after all; they had all been asked the same question many times before. Mary, Lucy and Samantha were all looking down on him with undisguised sorrow and pity. Mary and Lucy, especially, appeared to have been brought to the verge of tears by his question. Only Eleanor Cole did not stare at him with pity in her eyes. Her expression was stoic, but her eyes portrayed understanding. Tommy, although he did not know it was quite logical that he should feel that way, decided he liked her reaction to his question best. It was logical, though. After all, all four women had answered that question many times before – but only Eleanor had ever asked it.

"Mary," Tom repeated, somewhat more impatiently. "Where's Mum?"

"Oh, Tommy," Mary said, putting down her sewing. "I… she's not here anymore, honey. She's passed on." Noting Tom's baffled expression, she sorrowfully added, "She died, honey."

Tom blinked up at her, trying to figure out this new word that made Mary wipe tears from her eyes. "Died… as in dead-died?" It was the closest similar word he could think of. He'd heard them both before, but didn't really know what they meant, just that they were words big peopled used sometimes.

Mary nodded at this, her eyes welling with tears of sympathy and pity once again.

Tom considered the information he had been given. It was all well and good, but it didn't really answer his question. "Where's dead?" he asked, finally.

Mary swung her head back around to look at him so fast that she could easily have strained her neck muscles. "W-what?"

"Where's dead?" Tom repeated, surprised by her response. It was, after all, a perfectly rational question, in his opinion.

"I don't know what to tell you," Mary admitted, although it seemed to be directed more at the elderly Matron than the boy; seemingly in spite of her choice of pronouns.

"Tell the truth," Tom offered, logically. It was the option that made the most sense to him, at the time, after all.

As Mary stared at the boy, trying to figure out what to say, she listened to the sounds in the room – almost desperately searching for inspiration on how to make the conversation as painless as possible for the poor child – to the soft murmur of the children on the other side of the room as they quietly giggled and squirmed, to the fire crackling next to Samantha and Lucy and to Samantha's own slightly wheezy breathing. Finally, she turned slightly, taking the little boy's hands and clasping them in her own.

"When you die," she began, stopping almost immediately because her voice was cracking as she tried not to cry. "When you die," she repeated, "you go to Heaven, with the angels, a-and you watch over the one's you loved in life, while they live, so they know they're safe, a-and you're always happy."

"Is it nice there?" Tom asked, quietly.

Mary held his hands a little tighter, leaning over slightly more; almost so that she could kiss their pile of clasped hands, as a few tears trickled down her cheeks. "It's beautiful," she replied, her voice again betraying the sound of the sobs threatening to escape her.

There was a moment of silence.

"Bobby Breckenridge says that when you die you get put in a hole in the ground and you rot while the worms eat you," Tommy bluntly told her.

Neither of them noticed when Eleanor abruptly stood and stalked off to find the boy in question.

Lucy and Mary glanced helplessly at each other a moment after Tom had spoken. Tom, however, caught this motion and recognised the expression they both wore as being that which adults always wear when the answer to a question is yes, but they don't want to admit it.

"'s true, isn't it?" Tom asked, quietly.

Mary pulled back, squeezing his little fingers again, tightly, and nodding, as her tears fell unimpeded.

"Then why did you say they go to Heaven?" Tommy demanded, frightened and confused.

"Be-because you do go to Heaven, Tom, your _soul_ goes to Heaven. It's only your body that stays behind on Earth to be buried. It's just empty flesh."

Tommy stared up at her, feeling lost, unaware that his bottom lip was trembling.

Mary sighed and pulled him close for a hug, too distressed by the entire conversation to realize that Tom was barely reciprocating, as he stared – unseeing – passed her shoulder.

* * *

Tom was being carried, that much he knew for certain. He wasn't entirely sure how, but he knew he was being carried. After all, he was staring upright and watching the gray sky go by, without moving himself – so he was obviously being carried. Then, without warning, he was being lowered – or so he presumed, since the sky was moving away. Soon his unimpeded view of the sky was shrinking, as high walls of dirt grew around him to replace it. Eventually, he hit the bottom of whatever it was he was being lowered into. The sky seemed very far away. The floor – the ground – was cold, hard, wet (not quite mud, but close to it, like the dirt he had seen in the church courtyard on some Sundays when it had been raining overnight) and wriggly. The dirt walls surrounding him were a good three or four times his own tiny height and the sky seemed very far away.

Something was biting into his back …a large number of somethings, in fact. Alarmed, Tommy leapt up to his feet, anxious to get away from whatever it was. Yet the ground beneath his feet seemed only mildly less wriggly and there were hundreds of tiny holes in the dark soil, with little white things moving in and out of them. There were also still biting sensations on his back.

Terrified and panicking, Tom struggled to rip off the coat he'd been wearing. The moment he managed to wrestle it off himself, he dropped it onto the ground, and stared at the upturned outside of the coat. It was covered in worms, each one biting into it with its hundreds of sharp, pointy teeth. As he watched the coat be attacked by the worms, he breathed a sigh of relief at his momentary safety. Tommy closed his eyes; all he needed to do was climb the wall of soil and he could go back to the orphanage.

…something was biting at him, from inside his shoe.

Tom whimpered. He squirmed and flailed, desperately trying to remove his shoes (he couldn't get the laces undone) and trying to avoid the worms and the bugs. He clawed frantically at the high walls of dirt, but all he achieved was bringing more dirt down on him – he hadn't even realised it when the dirt started to fall from the sky and fill in the hole, started to trap him inside with the bugs and worms, but it was beginning to feel like a flood.

As the soil began to cover his chin he opened his mouth to call for help, twisting desperately in pain and panic as bugs and worms bit into all the parts of his body which were buried in the dirt. No one came. The worms came, though. Hundreds of squishy, horrible, wriggly worms squirmed up out of the soil and toward his mouth – and he couldn't close his mouth – and they wriggled their horrid, slimy ways down his throat and into his body… eating him from the inside out. He couldn't move, he couldn't scream; his throat was clogged by the worms and bugs eating at his body.

* * *

"Tommy! Tommy!"

Tom made a strangled noise and leaned over the side of his bed, retching. His nose felt blocked and, for a moment, this panicked him. He seemed completely unaware that Dennis had just burst back into the room, trailed by Mary – who he had rushed out to retrieve for his friend.

Tom was shaking; any tear tracks that might have been on his face were made invisible by the sweat running down his face and it was all he could do not to vomit.

"Tommy!" Mary cried again, shocked. "Tom, dear, what's wrong? Are you feeling ill?"

Tom looked up at her with a pained expression and made a strangled noise.

Mary immediately frowned; then gently placed a hand on his forehead. Moments later, after Tom made another weak noise, she lifted him from his bed (in spite of his weak, non-verbal protestations) and hurriedly carried him to the infirmary. Martha, who had only glanced up from her books when the door opened, suddenly stood when she realised that the child entering her territory was being carried.

"That one," she said sharply, pointing to one of the beds.

Mary, obligingly, laid the boy out on the bed.

"What happened?" Martha asked.

"I-I think he has a fever, he was retching something awful when I got their, apparently his flailing and retching woke one of the other boys and…"

"Buckets are under the shelves on the left," Martha stated, cutting her off. As she moved to retrieve a thermometer, while Mary was seeking out a repository for any vomit, the doctor turned back to look at the boy – frowning slightly in puzzlement at what she saw.

"Here," Mary said, offering her the bucket.

"Next to his, you fool," the doctor replied, still frowning at the wide-eyed, shaken boy.

"Aren't you going to give him something to help him? Or to sleep? I can't take him back to bed like this," Mary said.

Doctor Elder turned to her with a raised eyebrow. "I am going to blame your lack of rational thought on you being too emotionally attached to your wards – and foolishly so – and ask you to leave," she said, although it was clear that by ask she meant order. "Furthermore, you're not going to get him to sleep by giving him something, then wake him up so that he'll sleep in the right bed. You have other charges, go tend them."

Tom continued to stare, his eyes red-rimmed, as Mary left the infirmary.

"Now," the doctor said, drawing his attention to her as she sat down on the edge of his bed, "just because Mary doesn't have the ability to tell the difference between a fever and a nightmare doesn't mean I don't. You will tell me what you are afraid of, I shall then explain to you why your fear is irrational and absurd and then you will sleep. Understood?"

Tom blinked at her.

There was a long moment of silence as the two seemed to engage in a silent staring contest. Finally, one broke.

"The worms ate me to death!" Tom exclaimed, somewhat hysterically.

Martha blinked at him, momentarily baffled.

"They climbed down my throat and started eating me inside and I couldn't close my mouth!" the boy continued, the volume of his voice rising with every word he spoke.

"Which is why you woke up retching," the doctor replied – half inquiring and half explaining. "Your body was reacting to the ills that only existed in your mind."

Tom nodded, shakily.

"They weren't real, Maas," Martha said, firmly. "You had a nightmare."

Tom nodded again, only somewhat calmer, before hesitantly speaking up; "Could… could I have my mummy?"

Martha raised an eyebrow, surprised. "No," she said simply. "Your mother is dead."

"Oh," said Tom, faintly disappointed. "What's dead?"

Martha's face displayed no sign of the realisation brought on by the boy's question – of what, precisely, had caused him to have such a violent nightmare – and she answered his query with a steady, unbothered voice. "Death is the state that directly follows the termination of the life of any living thing," she said. "When you are dead, your body ceases to function and you cease to exist."

Tom frowned at her. "Mary says that when you die you go to Heaven…" he said, baffled.

"That's religious nonsense," Martha stated coldly, "told by cowards, to cowards, because they can't cope with the idea that one day they will cease to exist because humans are not the centre of the universe!" There was a minute pause before she spoke again, in terms she hoped the boy would be able to follow. "It's a fairy tale, Maas. There is no such thing as life after death. It's just a story."

"Does it hurt?" Tom asked quietly.

Martha shook her head. "If you don't exist, you can't feel pain," she said.

The doctor remained by his bedside for the remainder of the night, silent, although she knew he was not asleep. He had too many thoughts refusing to quiet down in his head to sleep. He didn't want to dream about the worms again.

* * *

**To Shawna:** I appreciate your sympathies and yes, as far as I know, the creep won't be bothering me again. I'm glad that you enjoyed the chapter and I hope your heart isn't too terribly broken by the poor boy. The main reason that Martha chooses to have Tom make water from scratch – other than so that she can give him a grounded basis in manipulating molecular science, which she (as a scientist herself) sees as the only explanation for what he's capable of doing – is that water from water vapour could easily be a natural result of the weather on any given day and is therefore impossible to distinguish from Tom actually succeeding in what he does. Thanks, I'm glad to be done with tertiary education myself.

**To Jen103:** I'm not entirely certain what you mean when you say that when Tom's eleven it's "only mrs cole". Mrs. Cole is the only adult member of the orphanage staff we actually meet face to face in canon, but she was not running the place on her own. Martha, incidentally, is also a canon character. In Half Blood Prince, during the chapter The Secret Riddle, Mrs. Cole is issuing instructions to one of the young girls working at the orphanage and specifically says "and take the iodine up to Martha, , Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets – chicken pox on top of everything else". It's on page 247 of the British editions. As for Mrs. Cole, who Dumbledore meets, being Eleanor – this has not precisely been explicitly stated in the story so far, but has been taken as self-evident by all of the prose. I am pleased to know you've been enjoying it, though.

**To Liliana:** It's probably a good thing I don't care about the number of reviews then, innit? I'm pleased to hear that you approve of the writing and the characterization, especially since I highly value the latter. Regarding your comments on Martha using science to teach Tom, the only thing I can really say is that you seem to have read my mind. That is the exact basis I had when I formulated the plans for the magic lessons and you're quite right, it is going to give Tom quite a head start. You've guessed right. Mrs. Eleanor Cole will be the one to meet Dumbledore. I'm thrilled to know another person has accurately deduced this – all of this, really – and it's a pleasure to hear from someone who clearly gets precisely what I'm, if you'll pardon the phrasing, getting at. If you consult what I've said to Jen103, you'll probably note that your fear for Martha's immediate safety – which I've found a surprising large number of people have voiced – is unnecessary. I'm also thrilled to know you like the way I've done the – as you put it – side events in the story, and I hope you continue to enjoy all aspects of the story.


	26. Maartje en Maasje: January 4th, 1932

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Maartje en Maasje**

Some time ago, Tom hadn't really paid attention to when, another new toddler had come to live in the nursery with Tom and the others. That hadn't been unusual, since children came to stay for a while and often left just as randomly. Tom hadn't really been interested, or alarmed by, as one of the littlest ones had been, the dark colour of the boy's skin, either. What had caught his attention about the boy – although not really about the boy himself – was his name.

It was incredibly confusing, Tom found, to have another Tom sharing a room with him. Every time the orphanage workers called for Tommy, Tom would reply only to find that they hadn't meant him – and the few times he assumed they meant the new boy, they inevitably became upset that he'd chosen to ignore them.

To their credit, they quickly understood the problem and were not upset with either boy for it. From then on they had simply called Tommy Tom and the new Tom Tommy. They couldn't call them Tom R and Tom some other letter, as they would have liked to, since the new boy was Thomas Rogers. Tom found all of this to be highly aggravating, although being told that he would be known by the big boys' form of his name from then on was rather pleasing, and for a very brief time refused to respond to any form of address than Martha's name for him. This had ended quickly, upon his concluding that he would never get to talk to anyone other than Martha again in his life, because no one else knew to call him Maas.

After a while, Tom had become accustomed to Tommy's presence. It certainly made things easier when Tom realised that Tommy thought having a bigger boy with the same name was something wonderful. On the other hand, Tom had no idea how to handle the little boy's idolisation and that had resulted in situations such as the one in which Tom currently found himself.

On Sunday night, Tom had allowed Tommy to play with Mokey – in an attempt to be nice to the tiny boy – and somehow Tommy had ripped Mokey's tail off. Tommy had been inconsolable and refused to release his grip on the tail. Mary had promised to retrieve the tail and fix Mokey in the morning. Tom had glowered at her and curled up in his bed, holding Mokey as close as possible and trying not to cry.

It would be too late in the morning, he had known, because Martha had once said that if you loose an appendage and don't get immediate treatment you bleed out. Monkeys' tails were appendages, Mokey was a monkey and had lost an appendage, therefore Mokey was going to bleed to death overnight – because Mary was stupid and insisted on waiting – and they'd have to put him in a box in the ground for the worms to eat.

At three in the morning, far later than Tom would have liked, Mary had finally stopped checking in on them and Tom, not willing to waste a minute, had pulled Mokey's tail from Tommy's grasp and hurried to the infirmary; hoping there was still time to save Mokey – he wasn't sure what blood type Mokey would have, probably invisible; he thought, but he figured that Martha would know what to do.

The first thing Tom noticed when he opened the infirmary door was that Martha was already awake. Tom, who had already learned to read clocks – although he wasn't exactly sure when he'd done that – and therefore knew it was three in the morning, found this very odd.

The second thing he noticed was that the doctor was wearing black – again something highly unusual for her, even Tom knew that – and the third was that she was still fixing up her hair, as if she had only just woken and was still partially in the process of dressing for the day. There was something glittery on her desk, next to the pile of calf-bound books in which the doctor kept her records.

In spite of her distracted air, the doctor looked up sharply when Tom pushed the door open and hesitantly slipped into the room. She stared for a moment, then shut her eyes firmly and shook her head, as if trying to clear an image from her mind.

"Maas," she murmured, lifting her old fashioned paraffin lamp to shed more light on the little figure in her doorway. This also shed more light on her and Tom could see that she looked very pale. When she caught sight of the broken toy he held, her pale face contorted with barely suppressed cold rage. "I didn't give you that toy just so you could break it," she whispered, her tone rather biting.

Tom flinched, trying not to cry. "Tommy did it," he explained, hesitantly moving toward her desk, "and Mary said she'd fix him tomorrow, but he's lost an appendage and he's going to bleed to death before then, and… and …and…" he trailed off, his misery overwhelming him. In a weak attempt to hold off on his agitation and fear, he closed his eyes.

Moments later, Tom felt the doctor's cold, soft hands remove Mokey and his tail from Tom's own hands.

"You are a fool," he heard her murmur, almost fondly. "Toys do not have blood, they cannot bleed to death. Wait here."

When Tom opened his eyes, the doctor was already walking toward her bedroom, toy pieces in hand, and Tom was practically alone in the infirmary – standing by the dimly lit desk. There was still something glittering on the desk, in the pale lamplight. Tom climbed onto the doctor's desk chair to take a look at it.

It was a very odd looking necklace, with a door in it that made it open and close and a pair of pictures inside – one painted, one a photograph – of two little people. They were both very pretty people, Tom decided. The little boy didn't look much older than Tom himself and the little girl seemed just like a porcelain doll in her pretty green frock and velvet green hair ribbon …and in their arms they each held a little toy. Tom's eyes widened – the boy was holding Mokey!

It was only then that Tom noticed the inscription circling the top of the image he was looking at.

_Maartje en Maasje, 1908,_ it read.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump.

Martha stood behind him, holding the repaired toy in one hand, an eyebrow raised.

Tom accepted the proffered toy and looked between the necklace and the doctor in wide-eyed confusion.

"Maasje, my brother," she stated. "The toy was his first."

Tom's mouth formed a tiny, silent o as he cuddled the toy monkey to his chest. "Does he mind?" Tom asked, referring to his having the toy.

Martha's face was blank when she softly, but bluntly, replied; "He's dead."

* * *

With monkey in hand and doubling as a pillow, Tom slept deeply on one of the infirmary beds. He didn't even seem to notice when the doctor carefully returned one of his legs to the bed and away from the floor, above which it had been dangling.

Eleanor gave the doctor a look which barely balanced disapproval and amusement. That the boy should continually wander from his own bed to sleep in the infirmary was one thing – an amusing thing, although it spoke poorly of Mary's ability to keep her wards in line – but the doctor's own behaviour was quite another.

Eleanor walked over to the desk, behind which the doctor sat, and firmly placed the cup and saucer, which she had been holding, in front of the doctor. "Tea," she said sharply.

"Well spotted," the doctor replied, raising an eyebrow and taking another swig from her glass of gin.

Eleanor sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. "Are you drunk?" she asked bluntly.

"Hardly," the doctor replied, the sharp look in her eyes proving that she was indeed sober. "I'm merely always this vitriolic, can you not tell?" There was a moment of silence before she added, "This is my first glass."

Eleanor reached out, awkwardly, and placed a hand over Martha's left hand; which was fiddling with a shiny locket, which lay open on her desk, beneath her fingers.

"Twenty-three years ago, on this day, I lost someone," Martha said. "Am I not allowed to grieve?"

Eleanor's eyes shifted to the locket beneath the doctor's hand, in momentary recognition that the locket had something to do with this, and the doctor's long, nimble fingers immediately covered it and snapped it shut – but not before Eleanor caught a glance of a dark haired little boy and girl, both smiling.

The doctor pulled the closed locket away, her eyes hard and Eleanor gave her a small nod. With one last nod toward the cup of tea, the young Mrs. Cole stood and – with the brusque advice of "Don't get drunk" – left.

* * *

Playtime injuries, Doctor Elder often reflected, were the most annoying kind. After lunch all the children would be allowed out to play for a brief time before returning to their classes or other indoor activities and during this time – almost inevitably – one child or another would gain a bruise or a scrape and wail as if their entire leg had been cut off. How they could manage this, with only a few toys and the flat gray stone of the courtyard to hurt themselves on (and each other, but that was surprisingly rare and very easily identifiable), was downright baffling. Martha was quite certain that she had never been that careless as a child. Worse still, it usually resulted in the rest of the staff carrying their tea outside to watch the proceedings (although whether they were cooing over the injured child and thus getting in the way, attempting to tell Martha how to do her job or actually watching the proceedings depended on each individual staff member's attitude.

The stupid child was snivelling. He had nasal mucus pouring down his small upper lip, his face was – implausibly – smeared with dirt and his dark cheeks were tearstained; furthering the difficulties associated with checking whether or not he was actually liable to bruise there.

"You know," she informed the boy, "this would be much easier if you weren't a nigger."

The snivelling toddler stared up at her, blankly. A crowd of children who had wandered over and they were doing absolutely nothing to help.

"What's a nigger?" a little voice, from the crowd of children, asked.

Martha ignored the question; instead focusing on cleaning the injured child's scraped face.

"A black person," an older orphan replied, as if this should have been obvious.

"Is that bad?" Tom asked, from among the crowd of children, while his… namesake, Tommy Rogers, continued to bawl his little eyes out and Martha struggled to clean said boy's face.

"No," said several voices, in the exact – or almost so – same moment that several others said "Yes".

"How informative," Martha drawled as she attempted to disinfect the boy's face.

"There's nothing wrong with being different, Tom," Eleanor said firmly, intending to end the conversation.

"It's just that being black isn't as good as being white," one of the older orphans murmured.

Tom frowned, thinking back to Oliver; a dark skinned young man who had left the orphanage quite some time earlier. "That makes no sense," Tom informed the unrecognised voice which had shocked most of the orphanage worker speechless with its audacity.

"Still," Helen Hackett said, the sneer clear in her tone as she moved to take a sip from the cup of tea she had brought outside with her, "it is better to be black than to be Jewish."

Martha emphatically threw down the cloth she had been wiping Tommy Roger's dark face with and turned, still crouching, to glower threateningly at the blond teacher. "_Thank_ you, Helen," she icily stated, "for that observation. I shall be sure to let my _grandmother_ know she is no_t _welcome."

The orphans, not in the least interested in the intricacies of silly adult problems such as varying levels of racism, watched what was promising to be a late night whispering session worth argument between the adults with fascination and amusement.

Helen immediately attempted to compensate for her error in the conversation, stumbling to verbally cover herself and her taken aback attitude, which was indubitably brought on by the unexpected retort from the doctor. "I didn't mean it like that!" she exclaimed.

"Of course you did," Doctor Elder replied coldly, lifting the scraped and bruised little black boy in her arms so she could carry him up to the infirmary, "that's why you _said it_."

* * *

Martha watched the little nigger sleeping off his misery in one of her infirmary beds. His skin, she noted, made an aesthetically pleasing contrast to the white sheets in which he slept.

She threw down her newspaper with, perhaps, more force than necessary, thinking back on some of Helen Hackett's previous comments about how 'those Jews' were taking jobs away from 'good English men and women'. The article the doctor had been trying to read, about the arrest of Mohandas Ghandi and Vallabhbhai Patel on the previous day, was wrinkled so badly – from her hand clenching around it before she had thrown it – that it was no longer legible. The doctor was not particularly inclined to care.

A cold, almost wet, feeling settled on her shoulder. Martha shivered; it was the same feeling Tom had complained of several times when he was placed in an infirmary bed near the Disturbed room. On one such occasion, he had sleepily complained of a silvery hand reaching through the wall toward him. Martha herself had never seen anything, but was willing to hypothesize that the boy could both do and see things that she could not.

Nevertheless, the presence – the cold touches and slight feelings of air moving unnaturally – generally remained around the infirmary and the Disturbed room and Martha had long since come to the conclusion, from her records of the incidents, that it was sentient. Naturally, making contact with something one cannot see was rather difficult – not to mention that it made her feel rather ridiculous – and so she had developed a habit of speaking aloud whenever she was alone and felt the presence.

"I need to change," she murmured to the presence.

There was a distinct pause, in which Martha felt five cold touches to her shoulder; each one consisting of five thin lines.

"…and you're making my shoulder go numb," she added.

Warm air rushed over her shoulder, as if to fill an area which Martha would have sworn had already been empty.

Martha, in an effort not to …scare off her unusual companion, continued to speak – something she was not normally inclined to do – while she stepped into her bedroom to change. "It amazes me that the boy could become so dirty – and smear so much of it on my skirt and blouse – since he was playing in a clean courtyard consisting entirely of gray stones. There shouldn't have even been any dirt for him to make a mess of himself with."

Moments later she was stepping out of her room again, dressed in a fresh black outfit – although, for once, she had left her silver locket where it could be seen; rather than tucking it into her blouse as she normally did on the few days of the year she would wear it.

A strange sort of silence, nothing like the silence that Martha usually kept her universe in, fell as the doctor carried her sullied clothes to the infirmary's laundry basket, dropped them inside of it, poured herself a drink from the cabinet and sat behind her desk to make her notes on her patient and the supplies used in one of her medical logbooks. The glass of gin sat on the edge of her desk.

After a few minutes, the doctor became aware of the metal around her neck growing cold. In a tone to match the temperature, she said, "If you would like to see inside the locket I will open it, but if you continue to touch it you may cause it damage; so I suggest you desist."

The metal grew no colder, but the doctor felt sudden cold shoot through her shoulder, as if someone had attempted to poke her to gain attention, but instead passed straight through her.

Martha opened the locket.

Shortly thereafter the top of the locket, surrounding the inscription, began to grow cold.

"Maartje en Maasje, nineteen-o-eight," the doctor said. "My brother and I."

If such things were possible, which the doctor's scientifically hardened mind would insist they were not, the silent and invisible cold seemed confused.

"My mother's family are Dutch," the doctor explained, as usual lacking in emotion, "her parents made this for me when I was very young. Roughly translated that would be 'Little Martha and Little Maas' and the year it – and the two portraits – was made. Maas – Thomas Cecil Elder: born March thirtieth; nineteen-o-one, died January fourth; nineteen-o-nine. He was a year younger than me."

If the doctor were to have described the shape of the cold she felt at that moment, and its – if they could be called 'its' – actions, she would have said cold in the shape of a small hand had caressed her cheek; or attempted to do so.

"It is of no matter," the doctor said, "he has been dead for over two decades now – and I am here to continue the family business."

As if in answer to this, the ink in one of her pens began to ice over. The pen had been laid down on a medical logbook when the doctor moved to open her locket.

"Yes, medicine," the doctor replied, unaffected. "My father's side of the family has several generations of doctors; my adventurous little brother would have joined their ranks. Ironically, it was two generations of those same Elder doctors who failed to save his life."

A cold sensation, almost like having a piece of ice run along her skin, trailed down the side of her neck, following the line of the locket's chain.

"I suppose that means you would like me to continue," the doctor stated, coolly. "Very well, then." The doctor cleared her throat. "In the winter of nineteen-o-eight, my obscenely rich family decided to take their children travelling as a present for Christmas. Unfortunately, my brother wished to visit the Congo and I; the Amazon. Maas was fascinated by elephants."

If the emotionless, factual – one might even say dead – tone with which the doctor spoke had not been her usual manner of speaking, one might have thought she was deeply moved by what she was recalling.

"My mother's brother and his wife had been intending to travel with us, but they were not object to the idea of making the holiday shorter and travelling with only one of the impossibly stubborn pair of us," the doctor continued. "So it was decided that my aunt and uncle would travel to the Congo with Maas, while my parents took me down the Amazon. My brother had always been the more interested, of the two of us, in spending time with my mother's family."

The doctor's eyebrows lifted slightly as her right hand grew cold and numb, most severely on the outside, as if someone was attempting to hold their own, cold, hand over hers.

"It was ironic," the doctor added, "since they might have known something was wrong earlier if we had divided ourselves differently – their English was decidedly poor, as was his Dutch, so they didn't understand much more than that he was not feeling too well and wanted to go home."

The doctor swallowed, almost distastefully. "Human African Trypanosomiasis – African Sleeping Sickness," she said, also distastefully. "A parasitic disease; usually transmitted by the bite of an infected tsetse fly. A major epidemic had ended three years previous, in the Congo basin; among other places. They discovered the firs_t_ working trea_t_men_t_ in nine_t_een-_t_en – one year too la_t_e."

The doctor pursed her lips slightly. "By the time they got him back to England – for the new year – he had reached the second stage. The first stage of the disease had been mistaken for a severe flu and a bad rash."

The cold sensation seemed to tighten around her nearly numb right hand, again, as if a silent reminder of and comfort from her invisible companion.

"The second stage of the illness," the doctor continued, "begins when the parasite enters the central nervous system. The sleeping cycle becomes disrupted, night and day become reversed; insomnia in the night and sleeps away their days, the patient suffers interchanging fatigue and mania, confusion, reduced coordination, eventually; death."

The doctor turned the locket slightly in the one hand she still retained feeling in, noting that the hand 'held' (for lack of a better term) by the presence was starting to turn blue. "My family nearly destroyed itself over the course of his illness," she stated, blandly. "My father and grandfather fought daily over how to treat my brother, neither wanted to eat, both threw themselves completely into the task of formulating a cure; the rest of their lives – the emotional needs of their wives and I – were forgotten, as if they didn't exist, in their desperation. May I have my hand back? I fear it shall turn purple soon."

The cold moved away from her hand, although it took some time for the doctor to actually feel it through her cold-numbed nerves.

"Thank you," she said.

A breeze ghosted over the necklace, causing the locket to spin slightly.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "My aunt and uncle were quite overcome with grief and guilt at what they considered to be their failure. My mother was," she paused before the last word, as if it was highly distasteful to speak it, "hysterical."

She sucked on the insides of her cheeks for a moment, as if tasting something sour. "It soon became apparent that my family would continue to rip itself apart as long as my brother remained ill. When he had first taken ill, I had helped my father and grandfather research – I even took part in the debate as to whether or not Maas should be put on morphine; which is an analgesic."

The doctor paused for a moment, as if suddenly realising that her invisible companion would not understand what she had just said. "A painkiller," she stated, "but a dangerous one."

The locket spun once again in an impossible cold breeze.

"It was a simple matter to distract his watcher and give him one dose too many," the doctor said. "The night I did it, I think he knew what I was doing. I could see it in his eyes. He was grateful," the slight darkening of her tone for that one tiny moment, while she spoke, had been the only tonal change throughout her entire explanation, "for an end to his suffering – to his family's suffering. It was the… least confused I had seen him since he became ill."

The cold presence seemed to have moved around to her other side, if the slowly icing glass was any indication, as if it were somehow uncertain.

"A few days later," the doctor continued, "at his funeral, I asked for a moment alone with the closed casket. He had always preferred the toy monkey our father's parents had given me – a black monkey with 'Martha's' embroidered in blue on it's little tummy – and I; his white monkey, so I wore my biggest winter coat to the funeral and when I was alone I opened the casket, took his monkey out of his cold – dead – hands and replaced it with my own. When I was eight, I became a murderer – according to common law – and by the time I was nine I was a grave-robber as well."

As another cold breeze caused the locket to begin to spin, the doctor snapped it shut; an almost amused expression gracing her face as she looked to her left – knowing she would see nothing unusual, bar her untouched glass of gin – and spoke. "I was a doctor's daughter: I knew precisely what to do," she paused for a moment, as if to allow her invisible companion to digest this information, before raising an eyebrow and adding, "just as I knew precisely what to do to help you, Mrs. Riddle."

* * *

**To Lilith:** I'm glad to hear you've been enjoying my writing so much. Hearing you say that you can't wait for an update is never annoying, I assure you. As for your question? Although it has fallen mostly out of use in the last two or three decades, Maas was – in Tom's day – one of the most common short forms for Thomas in Dutch. Essentially, the Dutch would call a boy named Thomas 'Maas' while a native English speaker would call them 'Tom'. I hope that clears things up.


	27. If You Want To: March 9th, 1932

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: If You Want To**

It was decidedly early in the morning – too early, if one were to ask for Tom's opinion on the matter, but since he had long worked out that Dr. Elder didn't particularly care what his opinion on the matter was, he didn't bother to complain as much as he otherwise would have. After all, he was starting his days so early so that he could practice to control his abilities with Martha, so waking up when it was still dark and seeking her out in the infirmary really wasn't worth complaining over.

After all, he never would have been able to fill the small jar, which she kept on her desk, with water if she hadn't been helping him. One of their more recent studies had been in trying to speed up and slow down the molecules in the water – turning it from water to vapour to ice, respectively – but she was very clever, in Tom's opinion, because she insisted on starting a new experiment once he was beginning to cope well with whichever he had most recently started (so far, that had only been making water from nothing, or – as Martha had corrected him – from separate oxygen and hydrogen particles) so that he wouldn't over-focus on any one task or way of doing things.

On this particular day, Martha had promised to try a new experiment with him, so that he would have two – the control of the speed of the molecules and whatever the new one she was giving him was. It didn't take him long before he had curled up as close to Martha's small fire as possible, in the infirmary, with a spare blanket wrapped around him, because he grew easily cold when he was tired …and at a time such as four forty-five in the morning, he was tired.

Martha had never actually emptied out the little jar of water on him when he failed to pay attention but she had said she was considering it, in her wry and sarcastic tones, and that thought alone made Tom smile and sit up straighter – not because he believed she would do it, but rather because he knew she would not: she kept the tiny jar of water on her desk (ostensibly where no 'acerebral imbeciles' would touch it while it was still being used for his lessons, unlike 'more important' things, but Tom had the feeling it was because, secretly, she might just be proud of him).

"Maas," the doctor said, pausing in her own note-making to interject – although it was only the one word and interject was hardly the appropriate term for it, since Tom had long since trailed off; so involved in his own thoughts about the doctor that he failed to realise that he had ceased in the constant, and surprisingly intelligible, babble he had been directing at the doctor for the past half-hour. Anyone else would have been kicked out unceremoniously within two minutes if they had not said only what needed to be said and removed themselves once they had relayed their message. Tom's conversations, if they could so be called – since the doctor didn't actually speak that much; even though she was making significant contributions to it – all things considered, were permitted to dawdle from topic to topic. A discussion on how Tom would best be advised to go about changing the speed of large clusters of molecules (admittedly Martha has been the only one using big words) had somehow shifted to whether or not the jar was likely to shatter from the pressure changes (how that related to how much Mokey liked having his tail back, Martha did not know). Then the conversation shifted to whether or not it was technically possible to make something float by moving the molecules making up the atmosphere below it at a faster speed so that the object would rise on the hot air (Martha had actually made notes about that suggestion, when it had first cropped up, for later experimentation) and to how Simon was an excellent cook but the orphanage porridge was disgusting (Tom wasn't sure why he'd felt the need to explain that, but he had the feeling that it either related to an example or metaphor he'd been using or something had simply reminded him of it). Next it shifted to what buoyancy was and why that would not be helpful to making things float in air as contrasted by why it would be (highly theoretical debates with five year olds who were brand new to the concepts could be surprisingly complex and intellectual, they had both found), to why schooling was an unfortunate waste of time (although the doctor would never admit that trading complaints against formal education – the teachers were stupid and condescending, classes were dull and uninteresting because there was so much repeated material for the slower students; who usually made up the rest of the class, no one wanted to sit with someone more intelligent than they were in fear of looking worse, there was name calling involved, studying on one's own revealed more information – with a five year old who was essentially having the same problems in Key Stage One as she had in university was rather more than slightly flummoxing) to how the hot-air balloon had actually aided in the discovery of anaesthetic gas and how strange that was (_neither_ of them were quite sure how the conversation reached that point).

"Cushions," the boy said quite firmly, as if he had not only just been suddenly pulled from his thoughts by the doctor's use of his name and as if this was somehow related to the previous topic of discussion and therefore – or for other, unknown, reasons – a perfectly appropriate and normal reply.

The doctor put down her Waterman pen and looked sharply at him. "Extrapolate," she said.

"I think I can make it float by putting cushions under it," Tom said, referring to the small and thin book which he would hypothetically (that meant not yet or in imagination or theory, according to what he understood of Martha's use of it) cause to float if the experiments went well.

"I take it this means you have decided to dismiss buoyancy based hypothesis?" the doctor inquired, although in many ways it was more of a statement.

Tom nodded, and said, "There's no water involved," with a tone which could only ever belong to a child of such a young age that things really could be that simple for them.

"And fast molecules are harder to govern in one specific area, I presume you do mean that when you say a cushion," the doctor continued for him, immediately following his train of thought.

"Like the hot air balloons," Tom agreed. "So we need a cushion lighter than air for it to rest on."

Martha gave him a shrewd look.

Tom, noticing this, looked almost abashed. "Lighter than the other parts of air," he corrected.

The doctor nodded at this. "You suggest that if you collect a lighter substance beneath the object you are trying to raise, it should be pushed up. In this case, presumably, you would be suggesting the collection of the helium molecules from the surrounding air, beneath the book."

Tom nodded eagerly.

"I had reached a similar conclusion," the doctor stated.

Tom beamed at her.

According to the notes Tom saw Martha making in her blue log book (notes on experiments, Martha had told him, were very important for science) it was four fifty-six when they began the experiment. It was six thirty before the book did anything and all it did was raise one corner up whilst the rest of the book remained strictly controlled by gravity and respectably on the desk. All in all, it wasn't much – but, like the tiny jar which had been filled measure by tiny measure with freshly made water, it was a start.

* * *

Amy Magnolia Wendy Penelope Benson (whose name was so long and complicated that the little girl had struggled to pronounce it and could hardly remember it) was born, according to the conversation Tom and Sammy overhead when they entered the infirmary, on Monday, January the sixth, nineteen-thirty; making her two years, two months and three days old when she was brought to the orphanage of Vauxhall Road. She snivelled the entire time.

Tom didn't think he liked her very much. He and Sammy had just been marched down from class – by Mr. Stone, who honestly seemed to believe that the other children would behave until he returned – and Tom had a handkerchief pressed up against his bleeding lip, but Mr. Stone hadn't spoken up yet; which meant that Amy was the only child the adults were paying attention to. Generally speaking, although he very much preferred to be the centre of attention, Tom wouldn't normally have minded that – but, as things stood, in this case he had been embarrassed in class, punched rather viciously by Sammy and he really wanted his Martha to come and clean his cuts …or perhaps just a hug. As long as the blonde, squealing and sobbing wreck continued to take up the combined attention of Mrs. Samantha, Mrs. Cole, Martha and the policeman friend Sergeant Brown who was delivering the girl, that did not seem likely to happen. Tom was not happy about that.

It wasn't as if he didn't know the girl had probably just lost her home and family – things which, although Tom's information was second-hand, he knew would essentially turn anyone's world upside down – it was simply that she was merely crying, while he was bleeding, and the staff really ought to know their priorities.

Mr. Stone, however, seemed to think that getting the little girl's personal details recorded, while she bawled behind her long blonde hair and her pretty blue eyes were red and swollen, was more important – since he, obviously, wasn't saying anything.

Sammy was still glaring at him as if Tom knowing the answers in class, while Sammy didn't, was somehow his fault. Tom still wasn't even sure what he had done to make Sammy attack him physically when Tom answered the question.

However, while Sammy was content to remain silent and glare (he, after all, was not the one bleeding), Tom was not. Tom looked purposefully at Sammy, ensuring the short-tempered boy quickly noticed the condescending expression his younger companion wore. Mr. Stone was quite oblivious to this

…until Sammy launched himself from the teacher's grasp and shoved Tom hard enough that the smaller boy fell to the ground with a yelp and a shocked expression. His body made an unpleasant sound as it hit the clean, tiled floor.

The reaction was immediate. Every person, apart from Tom himself, in the room turned to stare in shock at Tom, who was clutching his nose in pain. Even Amy stopped crying to stare at him. Tom was staring up at Samuel, who he had expected to react with cruel words rather than physical violence.

The doctor sharply raised one arm, her finger pointing directly at the door and, although her face was blank, her tone betrayed exactly how she felt about the situation; "Out!"

Samuel, for once erring on the side of caution, bid a hasty retreat.

Eleanor frowned. "Martha, I know the boy was in the wrong, but you oughtn't have sent him away. What if he was also injured?"

"I do no_t_ _t_rea_t_ _barnyard animals_," the doctor replied, vitriolic.

Jonathan Stone sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, while the doctor helped the small boy off the floor and carried him to a nearby bed. The newest addition to the orphanage, little Amy, peeked curiously out at them all from behind her long golden-blonde hair.

When the matron gave him a curious look, Jonathan spoke up. "It isn't the first time there's been trouble," he said. "From what I understand of young Mr. Chase's complaints, he's been lashing out physically at Mr. Riddle because he's still upset that the latter is in his class but Arnold Fitzgerald is not."

At the mention of the boy who had been so violently murdered, both Mrs. Coles immediately wore expressions of sympathy for Sammy.

"If he so desperately desires to be with his friend that he feels the need to give his classmates black eyes, split lips and nosebleeds," Martha coolly informed him, "I am certain we can make the proper arrangements with the undertaker."

Tom smiled in amusement, however it went unseen because the handkerchief the doctor had made him clutch to his bleeding nose hid it from view. Considering the slight smirk the doctor graced him with, though, she had probably noticed.

"That is a horrid thing to say, Martha!" Eleanor snapped, somewhat scandalized by the suggestion.

"Grief for the dead is no excuse for violence toward the living," the doctor replied calmly.

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Marty on this one," the Sergeant replied, still trying to get the little girl to let go of him (she had a very strong grip around his neck for someone so small) so he could pass her to the matron or matron's assistant. "It was violent grief that eventually resulted in this little one being brought to your door." He carefully bounced the frail, bruised little girl as he did so, trying to amuse her.

"Mummy coming back?" Amy asked, staring hopefully up at him, having apparently decided that all the strangers in the room were not too strange to talk around.

"I'm afraid not sweetheart," Samantha Cole replied, carefully beginning to extract her from Sergeant Brown's arms – not so much because she believed the girl would be more comfortable in her arms, but more because Thomas Brown's attention was more focused on his friend (the good doctor) who was tending little Tom Riddle's injuries.

Samantha shook her head and turned her attention back to the little girl she was holding. "I'm afraid Mummy's gone away – and she isn't going to be coming back for a long time."

Amy blinked innocently up at her. "Where?"

Tom opened his mouth to be helpful and explain – mainly because adults could be very silly about it and seemed to dance around the subject – but the quelling look the doctor gave him silenced him before he could begin.

"She's gone to heaven, with all the other angels," Eleanor said kindly, although she was not particularly good with children.

The doctor snorted.

"I don't think 'angels' is quite the right term, in this case," Sergeant Brown said. "The father squandered what little money they had on feeding his addictions and the mother – with the help of the gin – took her grief out on their daughter." He shook his head, adding, "It's hard to think they were once a normal family."

Tom was only half listening to the conversation, as far as he was concerned adult talk was very boring and he was only somewhat more interested in the squirming blonde girl across the room.

The doctor, however, must have noticed his gaze, for she quietly said to him; "You're both staying here the night, so you can play with her if you want to – just be gentle."

Tom wrinkled his nose at her and then yelped in pain because – having a bruised and bleeding nose from being pushed to the floor – the movement hurt. Moments later he replied, honestly, "I'd rather be able to make the book float."

The doctor smirked ever so slightly down at him. "You can do that too, Maas," she murmured, "if you want to."

* * *

**A/N: **

**To Shawna:** Absolutely nothing of this story is going on purely in someone's head. That is very much Merope. Canon, after all, only stated that she died – not that she moved on. As for needing more information immediately? I'm afraid what was a bombshell for you and the other readers was not one for Martha, I'm terribly sorry to disappoint, but you will have to wait.

**To Lilith:** No need to thank me for that, I'm always happy to answer questions. You're quite right, seeing the monkey broken was painful for Martha – but she expresses it by being short with Tom. Martha also finds the speaking aloud a bit odd, but she's struggling to make contact with something she can't see or really feel; essentially she's floundering. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

**To Jen103:** Thank you – I'm not sure the words 'brilliant' and 'wonderful' are deserved, but I appreciate the complement nonetheless.


	28. Ring A Ring o' Roses: June 14th, 1932

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ring A-Ring o' Roses**

"Why, of all places, did she choose to have this years' outing at the beach, so far away?" Eleanor grumbled – mostly to herself – as the orphanage staff organised the children into the train compartments as equally as they could.

"Maybe it's precisely because it seems far away that she wants to go," Simon pointed out. "Besides, the sea-air could be good for her."

"And if she becomes ill and the medical care in the village isn't good enough? Or she takes a walk along the cliffs only to suffer a coughing fit when no one is around to help her? Yesterday she went up the stairs too quickly and started turning blue, Simon!" Eleanor replied, concerned and frustrated.

Her husband, the younger of the two Mr. Coles, gently kissed her cheek. "She'll be riding one compartment down from Doctor Elder," he told her, "with plenty of responsible older orphans to accompany her. Don't fret so."

"You're not supposed to end sentences like that," Tom informed him – unconcernedly – as he walked past, leading a sleepy Dennis by the hand, to board a different compartment.

"Hold it right there!" Eleanor barked. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Tom shrugged artlessly. "With her," he replied guilelessly, pointing at Martha.

The doctor and the younger Mrs. Cole shared an exasperated look and, with a nod from Eleanor, Martha placed a hand firmly on Tom's little shoulder and directed him into her chosen compartment.

"It's not cold in the infirmary anymore," Tom told her cheerfully as he sat down, with Dennis still blearily clinging to his hand. "I think the cold decided to go away."

Martha mildly stated, "Cold is not sentient," although she glanced at the tiny edge of frost on the compartment window as she did, which should not have been there given that it was high summer. "Stay," she added, firmly, before exiting the compartment to retrieve the newest arrival to the orphanage – little Amy Benson, whose injuries she wished to keep track of (something which had, annoyingly, resulted in her taking care of roughly half of the nursery's usual occupants).

The little girl in question had quickly proven herself to be exasperatingly optimistic and as sunny in behaviour as her hair was in colour; annoyingly so. Amy waved cheerfully at the two boys in the compartment, completely oblivious to the dubious expression worn by the doctor who stood behind her.

Tom, for his part, smiled brightly and waved back. Dennis, on the other hand, was more cautious in his greeting – this was, after all, a girl and therefore, in his opinion, surely less fun to play with. They always wanted to play with dolls rather than have adventures, after all.

As the train began to make its way out of the station and toward the seaside town near Dover, in Kent, Martha regarded the three wards she was to be forced to care for until they returned to the orphanage in the early evening. "Tom," she said sternly, "I will return shortly. You are in charge until I return. Try anything 'interesting', 'adventurous' or 'fun' and I may not need to kill you when I return, because you may have managed to do it for me. Are we clear?"

Tom looked at his companions for a moment, then returned his gaze to the doctor and nodded. "They're littler, so I'm in charge until you get back," he stated dutifully.

Martha nodded and turned to leave.

"Doctor?" Dennis asked quietly.

"What?" Doctor Elder snapped.

"Who's in charge if something happens to Tommy?" the younger boy asked, clearly concerned.

"Are you older than Miss Benson?" Martha inquired, annoyed.

There was a pause as Dennis sized up the little girl. "Yes," he said finally.

"Then you are in charge in the _highly unlikely_ event that Tom gets himself killed or incapacitated while doing something stupid." That said, rather coldly, Martha turned back toward the compartment door – this time actually managing to set a foot outside before a little voice piped up.

"Doc'or?" Amy called, curiously.

The doctor, aware that not all of the little girl's more serious injuries had fully healed, turned back to face her charges and spoke, "Yes?"

"If… if Tommy an' Denny–" but she made it no further than that through her question.

"If both Tom and Dennis are either dead or incapacitated, then it is most likely that you are _also_ either dead or incapacitated; in which case you have _absolutely nothing to worry about_!" the doctor snapped.

The little girl, who was still used to associating raised adult voices and physical violence, shrank back in her seat, but nodded.

As the doctor left the compartment, having already given the occupants one last and sharp nod, she could hear Tom beginning to tell his companions an amusing (to children, she presumed) anecdote or some such and thereby successfully beginning the process of bringing Amy back out of the deepest, darkest recesses of the train compartment's seats. The sound of two little voices giggling seemed to imply that he was succeeding in his endeavours.

Martha brushed by something short and cold as she moved to a nearby window, which was beginning to fog up from the concentrated cold. She lifted her hands cautiously.

"Right: yes, left: no?" she inquired softly.

A chill went through her right hand – the feeling was almost like that which would occur if one dunked one's hand into a bucket of ice (only without the ice, the bucket or the water).

The doctor nodded. Then she began asking questions. "He hasn't mentioned anything, so I suppose you have not. Have you tried to contact your son yet?"

A chill ran through her left hand. _No._

Martha pensively stared at the place she predicted the unfortunate Mrs. Riddle's head would be. "Are you," she asked slowly, "unable to contact your son?"

A chill went through her left hand, then her right hand, then the left again. For a moment afterward, the doctor felt as if a flurry of cold winds had picked up between her outstretched arms. Then something far more chilling happened.

A sharp line of cold – like a ghostly finger – sliced across her throat.

Martha stumbled backward, one hand moving to her neck instinctively. "…I see," she said finally.

* * *

Rosie Mallory-Baines was not a selfish child. She had, after all, never gone and moved on and left her deceased child alone with no one else to play with in the graveyard and without the common decency to – at least – inform her child that they were, in fact, dead. That was very bad manners, in Rosie's opinion. Her parents had clearly had very bad manners. It didn't matter that she couldn't possibly be dead for real – she would have noticed – because it was still bad manners.

Tommy also had very bad manners. He hadn't visited her for a very long time – hadn't even acknowledged her after he accidentally set his bedroom alight the last time she had visited – and he hadn't bothered to acknowledge her when she walked in after the nasty doctor-lady had left.

Rosie knew that her friend Tommy had a friend named Denny – they had even sort of met. The little blond girl giggling and beaming at him, however, he hadn't told her about. That was very bad manners as well. Rosie didn't like bad manners. She liked the little blond friendship-invader even less.

When the blond …strumpet clinging to _her _friend Tommy's arm looked up and saw Rosie, the girl's overly-large blue eyes widened. Then the little tart practically bounced from her seat and pranced over to Rosie, although she clearly favoured one leg.

Behind her, Tommy looked up …and his eyes widened in alarm.

"Hello!" the blond …thing chirped, without even the decency to offer a hand. "I Amy. You for story-time?"

"Amy," Tommy said sharply, "Come here."

The strumpet – Amy, apparently, which was a horribly common and lower-class name, in Rosie's educated opinion – blinked owlishly at Tommy. "Friend?" she said simply, pointing at Rosie in an utterly barbaric fashion.

Tommy shook his head solemnly. "No," he said, a note of something Rosie couldn't fathom in his voice. "Stay away from her, Amy. Come here."

Rosie, quite understandably insulted, crossed her arms and stamped her foot – scowling in her indignation. She didn't understand it; _her_ friend was choosing the strumpet over her! It simply wasn't to be borne.

"LEAVE!" her Tommy thundered at her, gesturing with one finger pointing toward the door of the compartment.

Teary-eyed, Rosie fled.

* * *

"Of course," Martha breathed, "your vocal cords. You _can't _talk."

Something cold touched her right hand. _Yes._

"So he can see and hear you, but you can't talk back?" the doctor reiterated, for specificity's sake.

Once again, the chill seeped into her right hand.

"LEAVE!" a very familiar voice shouted from the compartment Martha had just vacated.

Moments later, the doctor felt something small and icily cold rush past her. She traded concerned expressions with the last presumed location of Mrs. Riddle's face (she had no way of knowing that her presumption was perfectly accurate or that Mrs. Riddle had also worn a concerned expression, but that was also a matter of logical deduction), then looked in the direction the cold sensation had moved.

A chill crept again into her right hand. _Yes_, it meant, but the doctor could only hope that the rather deceased Mrs. Riddle was trying to say that yes; she would investigate the other presence. Without waiting to discover whether she was right or wrong, although the answer was usually right, Martha returned – at a brisk pace – to the compartment. "What happened?" she bit out.

Amy blinked up at her in innocent confusion. "Girl say hello. Tom say her leave, no friendy."

Martha blinked at her for a moment, before deciding that she was most certainly not in the mood for translating from toddler to comprehensible. "Tom," she inquired sharply, "what happened?"

Tom seemed to sink slightly into the overstuffed train seat he occupied. "Rosie came in," he explained dejectedly, ignoring Dennis' shocked expression. "Amy tried to make friends, but Rosie was glaring and …after _last time_," Tom paused there, with a slight shrug. "Seemed safer," he finished, practically mumbling.

"That was most likely very wise of you," the doctor informed him, noting with a detached sort of pleasure that the boy perked right up at the praise; like a plant which had been given water after a long time without any.

Martha nodded again, as she sat, and removed a blue log book and pen from her bag. After making the appropriate entries in the index and the new page-entry, she frowned, reading the index once again for similar events – in case cross referencing ever became an issue, she wished to be pre-prepared; moreover, noting page numbers of similar events in the end of each entry could easily betray the existence of an otherwise unnoticed pattern.

In the index for 1929, she found what she was looking for.

_31 Mar_, it read,_ 8:34 approx./corridor, outside Dist. R/Mrs. E.C. Tom D.B/hallucinates: 'Lady' /p.25_

Martha quickly flipped to page twenty-five. What she read actually made her smile, albeit very slightly. Tom had stated that there was an 'ugly lady' in one of the rooms. The room, unbeknownst to him, had been the Disturbed room – the room in which his mother had died – and his only description of his mother… it must have been his mother …had been that she was an ugly lady. At that age he probably hadn't understood – couldn't have understood – the injuries he had seen. Yet now, after growing old enough to understand – to some degree – the concept of death, and after meeting Rosie (who, he said, had bone sticking out of one of her cheeks) Mrs. Riddle was probably concerned that she would frighten her son. It was only a mater of time, of course, before she attempted to communicate – curiosity would win out in the end, when partnered with grief and concern – but for the moment it seemed that little Tom's guardian …spirit preferred to remain in the shadows. How she would, therefore, manage Rosie was a puzzle.

* * *

Rosie stomped her way along the grassy field where the orphans and orphanage staff were having their picnic lunch. In the distance, for she was as close as she – at the time – dared to be, Rosie could see Tommy, Denny and the little blond intruder eating their respective sandwiches (fish paste, jam and peanut butter, jam _and_ fish paste – the blond strumpet was strange, that was a simple fact – she knew all of this because they had been told what their sandwiches were while still close enough to the crowd that Rosie had been able to hide in it and listen). Near them sat the nasty-doctor lady, who wasn't quite as nasty as the pale-haired, sharp-featured woman who had made Tommy promise not to play with her. The doctor had already finished her sandwiches and begun – from what Rosie could see – to eat, and hand out, pieces of fruit. Tommy had been given grapes – that she could see from a distance – and while his body was blocking her view of what nice treat Denny received but she wasn't being given a share of, she _could_ see that the little blond friend-thief had pre-chopped squares of something vividly yellow.

…she also, apparently, didn't know what to do with them. That was why the doctor-lady was essentially feeding them to the blond brat.

Rosie sniffed, derisively_. Good, _she thought, _they deserve each other._

"Ring a-ring o' roses," she sang to herself as she walked, feeling terribly lonely.

Moments later, however, she froze in place – in the distance, she had seen, Tommy had stiffened and started looking around. She had known the slight breeze was blowing from her direction toward his, but she hadn't expected him to be able to hear her!

* * *

Tom Riddle shook his head. Amy had finally finished stuffing her sandwich into her mouth (Martha had seemed less than pleased about having to wipe up the rather incredible mess the girl had made of her face) and was being fed pieces of pineapple. Martha had apparently decided that, no matter how beneath her dignity it was, it was neater than allowing the toddler to try to do it herself. Amy, for her part, seemed quite thrilled by the positive attention from the adult (Tom had noticed that she was a very open and friendly child …to other children).

"…ocket…o…posies."

Tom stiffened, slightly, just as he had the previous time he had heard the song. Logic suggested that some of the other children were singing it. Then, moments later; as the sound of Dennis' chatter stopped, he heard it again.

"…all fall down!" A childish giggle. The sort that was high, innocent and disembodied.

Tom shuddered. He knew that Rosie had been on the train, before it had left the station, but he hadn't thought she would follow them all the way to the beach! He might actually have said something at that moment, if he hadn't suddenly caught sight of Dennis' jam covered hand sneaking towards the grapes.

Tom grabbed his fruit and held it out of reach, smiling in a smug but friendly way at his companion.

Dennis grinned and started trying to find his way into his orange. Shortly after this began the doctor took it from his hands and irritably peeled it for him. She then went back to one-handedly feeding Amy the pineapple cubes. Her other hand was protecting her grapes – apparently she didn't trust Tom to be satisfied only with his own.

The singing didn't stop while they finished their food, not really, it faded in and out – most of the time more than half of each line was lost to the wind – but it was there. Tom would have been thrilled to lay the blame on the over-active imagination the orphanage staff, as a group, seemed to agree he had – but he had seen Amy looking around for the source of the sound as well.

Finally, he snapped. "Can we take a walk?" he asked the doctor – partially demanding, partially pleading, but entirely forceful because of his alarm and irritation.

Martha merely raised an eyebrow before inclining her head, slightly.

Dennis, however, shook his head. "No!" he stated, "I don't want a walk!"

"Walk?" Amy asked, finally looking up from her imaginary game of who-knows-what, "Are we taking a walk?"

Martha looked down at her youngest ward in surprise – it was, after all, the longest and most coherent sentence she had ever heard of the toddler giving.

"Then you may go and sit with somebody else," the doctor coolly informed him.

Dennis stared up at her for a few moments, trying to figure out whether her offer was either sincere or any good – he also spent some time glancing at Tom, his best friend, and then back to the doctor. Finally, he nodded and – under Doctor Elder's watchful eye – he packed up what little he had on the blanket which was supposed to be his responsibility and carried it all over to the blanket where the rest of the children from the nursery sat, watched by Mary and Lady Blackwood – Lucy – although the latter only watched when her own baby was not taking up her attention.

A single look between the two women who still worked in the orphanage told them both what they needed to know and Martha (once she had tidied up their own picnic spot and items) quickly led her remaining two charges away from the rest of the orphanage workers and children.

Tom could still hear the giggling behind him.

* * *

Rosie was enjoying her trip to the beachside town. She was forced to remain out of her Tommy's sight – so that he wouldn't yell at her again – but as she sang and skipped, following him and his company, she decided that she (at least) was having a very good time.

"Ring a-ring o roses," she sang, the tune somewhat slower than it normally would have been, because she didn't want her Tommy to think she was having too much fun without him, "a pocket full of posies. A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down! URG!"

As she had never, since she had died, met someone who was solid to her, the hand which had grasped her wrist and pulled her out of the street (into a dark, closed shop – right through the window) had been a shock.

She blinked in bafflement, but only for a few moments, then lifted her little head to see who – or what – had attacked her.

The face staring down at her was horrific. It was sunken and mask-like – from starvation – its blank eyes were crossed, its lank hair seemed to drip as it stared down at her and out from its neck oozed terrible, dark silver rivulets.

It was unmistakably dead.

That was when Rosie started to panic.

The thing held firm the grasp it had managed to get on Rosie's delicate little wrists, in spite of it being mere skin and bones, and Rosie's struggles soon proved to be in vain.

"What do you want?" she squealed.

The thing… the ghost… opened its mouth, but all that came out were horrible – choked – rasping noises …and more blood oozing from the neat slice across its throat.

Rosie squealed in terror and began struggling to escape once more.

The monstrous being, however, seemed to understand, because Rosie soon felt what could have been intended as comforting petting of her face and hair. Somewhat mollified, Rosie dared to glance back up at her captor's face – somehow it seemed less unkind all of a sudden – and blinked up at it. "What do you want?" she repeated, still scared but no longer completely terrified.

The apparition pointed a finger at Rosie, then pointed it at the direction Tommy, the strumpet and the nasty-lady had gone and again back to Rosie, whereupon it was shaken rather forcefully in the little dead girl's face.

Rosie stared at it. The, after a few moments, she meekly asked, "You don't want me to follow Tommy?"

The nod, which was slow but immediate, made the answer very clear and the silvery ooze to leak out and spread faster than it had before. Rosie shuddered, but nodded.

The moment the thing let go of her little wrists, Rosie fled to the train-station and remained there, hiding in the lost luggage office, until the orphanage staff and the orphans returned to catch their train home.

* * *

While Martha and Amy walked slowly, for the sake of Amy's little and most likely still a tiny bit sore legs, Tom ran ahead and examined the world with fascination. Soon enough, though, Martha paused – Amy dawdling curiously and hanging on her trouser leg – beside a newsstand, frowning. Tom took the opportunity to move further on.

He was still in the area where the doctor could see him – if she had looked up from the newspaper she was contemplating – but significantly far away. He was also very close to an ice cream vendor (unbeknownst to him; the vendor, Tom, had once sold a grape ice lolly to Martha, while Tom had been teething and irritable – this had been long forgotten by the vendor and is, frankly, of absolutely no importance).

Across the street – but closer to the vendor than Tom was – a cheerful, well-dressed man was walking with a pretty young lady. Tom very much had the feeling the man liked her. They also appeared to be likely to start crossing the street at any given moment.

Tom, staring longingly and dejectedly at the ice cream vendor and the cool treats he could not buy for himself, began to cross the street – without looking where he was going.

It was his other senses – mainly hearing, perhaps gut instinct as well; for his actions were not pre-meditated – that told him it was safe to cross the street and which led to his walking directly into the well-dressed chap's somewhat bloated belly.

Tom blinked up at the large thing in his path with shock and innocent – not even put on innocence – bafflement.

"I say," said the chap, "do try to look where you are going, won't you, my lad?"

Tom's face immediately contorted with embarrassment and regret. "I'm sorry!" he blurted out, his voice squeaking slightly. "_know_itwassillyofme'causeIcan'thaveonebutI …I'm so terribly sorry!"

Both the man's and his lady friend's faces quickly began to express pity and – after a glance between them – the man placed a comforting hand on Tom's little shoulder and led him gently back off the street. This was a good thing, since one of the automobile drivers appeared to be becoming impatient.

"Now then," said the affable chap, "what's all this about not being able to have an ice cream? Surely your parents wouldn't refuse you a nice cool refreshment in this weather."

Tom looked blankly up at him for a few moments – wearing the schooled, poker-faced sort of expression which one would traditionally wear when trying to decide how to respond to a potentially upsetting comment without offending anyone and which actually expressed far more than the people wearing it traditionally assumed it did – before speaking. "I don't have any parents," he said simply, stating a fact rather than trying to incite pity or sympathy. He then gestured to the Vauxhall Road Orphanage emblem on his gray tunic shirt, elucidating: "The staff can't afford to buy us all ice creams, so none of us can have any. I'm sorry for running into you, sir, it wasn't considerate."

Unbeknownst to him, it was the combination of his calm (mature) acceptance of the problem, his straightforwardness and his momentary struggle to properly use and pronounce 'considerate' that won him the necessary amount of goodwill and charitableness.

The good-humoured gentleman returned his gentle hand to Tom's shoulder and, with his lady friend in tow, began to walk the boy over to the ice cream vendor. After a brief conversation – in which Tom apologised several more times, out of sheer mortification, and the gentleman absolutely refused to accept Tom's logic that (since he was already being given more than any of the others would have) the very cheapest would be more than enough – Tom found himself being directed to a nearby bench to eat his large, hard-won, ice cream.

Two things happened at that point: Amy, who had noticed the proceedings and wandered away from Martha, approached Tom – and Mary, who had come around the corner while looking for the doctor, noticed Tom waving to the cheerful gentleman (who was in the process of buying himself and his lady friend ice creams). Tom only noticed the first – and that only after he had finished waving to the affable gent and Amy had managed to pull herself up onto the bench next to him.

Amy glanced up at him shyly – it was the first time she had been shy since the day she had arrived at the orphanage – with her golden hair falling in her face. Cautiously, she lifted a tiny had and pointed at the ice cream Tom was holding. "Me too?" she asked, hopefully.

Tom cocked his head to the side, studying her and giving the appearance of deep thought. Then he nodded in agreement, but insisted upon holding the ice-cream so that Amy's skinny little fists could not drop it. They took turns licking it. Tom had the vague feeling that he was being used the same way the gentleman had been (that is to say: willingly), but he figured that what the girl had of the ice cream wasn't a loss: since Tom had originally had nothing, anything he never received was not a loss but the loss of a potential to have – essentially: everything he did receive was a gain.

It was at that point that Mary made it to the gentleman's side: huffing, puffing and profusely apologising for Tom's behaviour. She was also completely failing to accept the laughter-inclusive explanations of the gentleman.

Eventually he waved his free (non-ice cream laden) had toward the bench where Tom and Amy were completely enraptured by their ice cream and said, "Look: he's sharing."

Mary stared, any further comments of hers completely incoherent, as the gentleman and his lady friend moved away. When Mary recognised that Tom was, indeed, sharing with Amy; she immediately began looking around for Doctor Elder. One ward up to mischief could have simply wandered away, after all. Two meant that their watcher had to be somewhere nearby.

Sure enough, Martha was a short distance away; still looking through the newspaper she had acquired.

Mary, naturally infuriated by this, immediately marched over and began a verbal assault on the doctor. "Do you not _care _what _happens_ to these children?" she all but shrieked. "How could you just _walk away from them_?"

"I used my legs," the doctor replied blandly, not looking up from her paper.

"JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH, MARTHA! HOW COULD YOU?"

That time, Mary's shriek began to attract attention.

"Interesting list," the doctor stated, laconically.

Instead of shrieking again, Mary just gave her fellow orphanage worker a look. It was an exasperated look – the sort one might expect to warrant its own capitalisation.

Martha rolled up the newspaper she had been reading, just as calm as ever, and thrust it at her companion. "The Schutzstaffel and Sturmabteilung," was all that she said.

She walked away at that point, to check in on her ice cream-devouring wards. She doubted Mary understood why that information had distracted her. She doubted that Mary was aware that she had good reason to be

…she had Jewish relatives in Berlin.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter is partially inspired by the song _I'm Not That Girl_, from the musical _Wicked_, which my sister kept playing in the next room while I was searching for peace and quiet to write in. The line "Gold hair with a gentle curl, that's the girl he chose, and heaven knows; I'm not that girl" got stuck in my head while I was writing Rosie's first impression of Amy and… well. I don't like the song or the musical, but Rosie's feelings about Tom and Amy are fairly well paralleled by it, so I figured it was worth mentioning.

**To Jana:** I'm glad to know you've been enjoying the story, and that you appreciate the historical research – but there's no need to thank me for it. It's a pleasure.

**To Shawna:** Well, I'm sorry I had to disappoint you in the last chapter (I knew it would disappoint some of my readers!), but I've got what happens in all the chapters planned out – and have pretty much from the word go – so I knew I was going to have to disappoint some people last time so that this chapter would have the proper resonance. And, of course, the rest of your review was answered in this chapter (I hadn't not told you about the time Merope contacted[ish] Tom, it's just that no one picked up on it happening). I am glad you liked the way Tom's conversations were described.

**To HowlinWolf: **Don't be disappointed with yourself – 's a big site, after all. I'm sorry your heart dropped (it _did _land on something soft, right?) when you reached what was the temporary end. I try to update twice a month, but I'm writing three different stories (two fics and an original) and I'm trying to write two chapters of each a month… two times three times circa five thousands being… um, thirty thousand-ish words a month, plus additional notes on LJ and IJ… it's a lot, anyway, so I can't promise to always make my two chapter a month quota, but I hope not to disappoint you too much. …It also probably says something about how much research I'm putting into the stories I write (probably that I'm buried in research and disconnected from reality) that my first thought about your snake-metaphor was "but snakes don't rip throats out: their fangs are too delicate!" …yeah. I'm clearly totally focused on the wrong things. I'm thrilled that you like Tom – and Martha, I honestly never expected her to be so popular (she was just a one line throwaway name in canon, after all).

**To Jen103:** …I suppose in this case it may be best not to argue with you and simply accept that you have too much faith in my 'brilliant' story. I hope Amy (and the story) continues to live up to your expectations.


	29. The Best of Friends: September 20th 1932

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Best of Friends**

"You have to stop doing this."

Samantha Cole gave the young doctor and exasperated and disbelieving look over the handkerchief she clutched to her mouth.

"I am not denying that he deserved punishment," Martha continued, unfazed, "but you are too old and too _ill_ to put a child over your knee anymore."

Samantha broke out into another coughing fit, instead of huffing with indignation as she had attempted to.

"You see what it does to you," the doctor pressed.

After a long moment, Samantha's coughing subsided and she removed the handkerchief. "At least," she said in a quiet, but firm, tone, "it's only my lungs that are rotten." She nodded slightly to the other woman's bare neck; her eyes focused roughly where a necklace chain would be expected to lie.

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Martha, you are my friend," the Matron said.

The eyebrow climbed higher. Otherwise the other woman was impassive.

"Ten to fifteen swats on his bare bottom, with hand or hairbrush, would have been appropriate punishment for the child. Telling him – _in front of the other children_, no less – that with an attitude such as that it was little wonder that his mother abandoned him is _not_!"

The doctor continued to regard her impassively.

"He is still crying, Martha." The perfect clarity and diction with which each word had been said was almost painful.

After a few moments of silence from the doctor, however, she felt the need to say straight out what she had been trying to hint at. "Martha," she said, "you are a bitch."

"I am aware of that," the doctor said, her tone even and blank.

Samantha stared at her for a long moment, before giving up and changing the subject. "Another matter; little Tom Riddle… I felt that I should warn you…" she shifted uncomfortably as she spoke, a clear sign that she was disturbed by what she was about to say; or, perhaps, about to hear in reply. Finally, she settled on, "There has been talk."

"What kind of talk?" Martha inquired.

Samantha winced slightly. "The kind that suggests that what you do while you are alone with him in the infirmary is not just give extra lessons to an unusually bright boy."

The doctor's face was blank. However, unlike her usual blank expression, this one seemed to portray a stunned silence in spite of its blankness.

"Who?" she finally asked.

"I have done everything in my power to put an end to the rumours, as has Eleanor," Samantha continued, although her surprise at Eleanor's determination to end the rumours showed in the inflections the Matron used as she spoke.

"Who?" the doctor demanded.

Samantha sighed a very slight – and nearly inaudible – sigh and tipped her head sideways for a moment as her shoulders slumped. "Some of the older children," she replied, "and Helen – no one else on the staff takes it seriously."

The doctor nodded, tightly, clenching her jaw as she did and, with a nod to Samantha, turned to stalk out of the room.

"As your friend, I implore you," the Matron added, just before the doctor could open the door and leave. "Remember that he is dead."

The doctor took the change of subject in stride. "It is merely scientific curiosity," she said coldly. "I could no more be concerned for a Petri dish of amoebae." Then, colder than she had ever been before to Samantha, she turned back around and stalked away.

The Matron snorted after her companion had left. "Scientific curiosity," she repeated, her tone implying that she could not believe the suggestion had been made and that she was both amused and disgusted by it. "I hope you are as good a person as I believe you to be," she added to the empty room, mentally finishing with the afterthought: _because if you aren't you'll do more damage than even the worst of the rumours suggested._

* * *

"Play fam'y!" Amy cried, pulling on Tom's arm. "Come. Play fam'y. Housie."

Tom looked at the other children who were going to play family with Amy. Those who didn't seem at least faintly annoyed by the toddler – who could barely speak – giving them orders appeared to be less than enthusiastic about inviting him to play.

Dennis looked between the two headstrong children and attempted to blend into the gray wall that surrounded the orphanage's courtyard. Both the nursery children and the school aged children had been allowed to spend the second half of their lunch hour playing outside, because it was a nice day.

"Dennis can be the neighbour," one of the older girls – actually the same eight year old who had suggested the game – said, saccharinely, "and Tom can be the dog."

With his wit and intellect failing him in the face of the group of giggling and pointing children, Tom fled.

Dennis, as ever, followed quickly behind him.

* * *

They made it to the second storey corridor before Tom's little body began to shake – with both humiliation and rage. Dennis had the distinct feeling that Tom neither knew where he was going nor particularly cared. Dennis wasn't particularly bothered, either. He just trotted along behind his seething friend, as ever trying – and just barely failing – to keep up with him.

Tom paused there on the second storey landing – listening to the raised voices coming from the infirmary. In actual fact it was more like one raised voice: the other, that of the doctor, merely was naturally resonant and carried well without an increase in volume.

Helen Hackett, her cheeks and ears red with her fury – and her hair as distinctly askew as she was flustered – stormed out of the medical facility in question, only to freeze in place when she saw Tom on the landing. A sort of righteous indignation flared in her eyes, as she clearly took his presence as proof that she was right about something. Nevertheless, she plastered a smile on her face and hurried over to him before Tom could follow in Dennis' footsteps and escape into the unused Disturbed Room, which he was standing next to.

"Tommy Riddle!" the teacher exclaimed, clearly meaning for her tone to be sweet. "What are you doing in here? You know children aren't supposed to be inside right now – it's time for you to play outside, until your lunch break ends – it's against the rules."

The blond placed a hand 'protectively', and unwelcome, around Tom's little shoulders. "You know you can tell me anything, don't you?" she pressed. "Why are you here?"

"I was cold and thirsty. It's too chilly outside," Tom replied, stiff in both posture and tone, as he decided that the teacher's inordinately pushy attitude would have been enough to make him lie – for simplicity's sake – even if he had been comfortable sharing the incident, or the many like it, with a complete stranger (or anyone, really) and giving the impression that he was a little baby who still cried all the time rather than a big boy.

Dennis watched curiously from inside the Disturbed Room. Someone else did so as well, but no one took any notice of her.

Miss Hackett gave him a pitying look which made him feel disgusted and almost ill.

"Now, Tommy," she began.

"Leave him alone," Martha said coldly from where she stood – her arms crossed – in the doorway of the infirmary. On her own, with her cold and dismissive attitude, she was intimidating – the fact that she, in this case, had allowed the orphanage cat, Chuck, to stand by her feet (his orange fur raised along his back and his teeth bared as he hissed in the direction of Dennis and the Disturbed Room) when she normally wanted him as far away from her and her infirmary as possible, made the moment more disconcerting than her usual sudden appearances.

"With you?" Helen replied scathingly. Unfortunately, she ruined the power of the statement by adding, "After what you've been doing to the poor dear?" after a few seconds.

Tom stared between the two women, trying to figure out exactly what it was that the doctor had 'done to' him. Nothing he could recall deserved either woman's death glare. He wrinkled his nose as the teacher tried to pull him closer – when she smiled she was pretty and had dimples, but Tom didn't think that made up for the fact that she smelled terrible (like something flowery and artificial) all the time and it made Tom's nose itch. Indeed, the single – unwelcome – half-hug, had been quite enough to make Tom wince and pull away; trying to escape the odour.

"We have already had this conversation," the doctor stated.

"What conversation?" Tom asked, looking between the adults in bafflement and concern.

Helen opened her mouth to speak, one hand attempting to pet Tom's hair soothingly as she did, but the doctor cut her off before she could begin.

"The one in which Mi_ss_ Ha_ck_e_tt_," she bluntly replied, over enunciating the name, "considers the evidence of the time we spend together, my Jewish ancestry and the fact that I am an Atheist and comes to the _completely logical_ conclusion that I am involving you in _paedophilia_."

"I never said a word about your ancestry," Helen snapped.

"No," Martha replied archly, "you just implied it."

Helen glowered at the other woman. "Even if you are not …touching him," she slowly said, the slight shudder that ran through her fine frame at the thought (and the look of disgust and nausea that was visible on her face for a moment when she closed her eyes) complimenting her ever-so-slightly melodramatic attitude and her cold tone quite perfectly, "the attention you shower on him is inappropriate."

Martha just continued to look steadily at her.

"He's a normal little boy, Doctor," Helen continued, something in her breathy inflections suggesting that she desperately wanted both for the doctor to understand and to have been wrong about her. "You have no reason to be so focused on him and it makes us worried." Helen shook her head again, her gold earring jangling between loose locks of her golden yellow hair as she did.

"You should be glad that they decided there was something wrong with you and not something wrong with him," she added; her tone pained, angry and bitter, as she turned to walk away and toward the stairs.

In a sudden rush of movement, the doctor caught up to her colleague in two long strides; falling into step with the fairer woman and making the two look almost like they could have been the inspiration for a pair of light and dark, or night and day, matched bookends (like the old pair Tom had seen once in the Matron's office).

Their voices were too low for Tom to hear as they emphatically murmured to each other and moved their hands in small, but sharp and strong, gestures and moved toward the stairs. Tom frowned. He didn't like Miss Hackett – she was annoying, she treated him like an infant, invaded his person with her presence and had clearly begun using mean words on Martha. Tom's brows furrowed more as he stared at the top step of the staircase and focused on the properties of helium.

"He's a bright boy," Martha told her companion, irritated even more than usual by the sharp click-click-click of the teacher's high heeled shoes as they walked along the tiled floor.

Click-click.

"Then let teachers teach," Helen replied emphatically.

Click-click. Click-click.

"Is that why you're determined to see the worst in me? Because you're afraid I'll make you redundant?" Martha sneered as they reached the stairs, stopping in place.

Click-click. Click-

"My concerns are legitimate," Helen stated coldly, in reply, as she stepped down to what she expected to be the first step of the stairs. There was nothing there. Gravity, however, did not wait for her to stare comically at her companion for a moment before she fell and the shock had barely registered by the time she had pitched forward and was falling, tumbling really, down the stone staircase: head first.

The sound of heels click-click-clacking on the tiled floor had been replaced by far more disturbing sounds. Flesh hitting stone, flesh being dragged over stone and high heels scraping and scratching their way along as she fell: all of those noises made up the paradoxically near-silent din that covered most of the vocalisations of pain the woman made. The almighty crash and thump, when Helen finally hit Eleanor – who had been at the bottom of the stairs – and therefore ended her fall, was neither louder nor quieter than any of the other noises.

There was a small streak of blood on the wall about midway down the stairwell, but otherwise no other signs that anything had ever been amiss.

For a few moments, no one moved. Then Eleanor – still staring at the top of the staircase – pulled herself out from beneath the unmoving blond. The doctor, still somehow managing to appear un-harried and unruffled, bolted down the stairs and knelt next to the teacher, immediately beginning to check her over. Curious, Tom quietly approached the top of the staircase.

"Call for an ambulance," the doctor ordered, not looking up from her examination of her patient.

Eleanor continued to stare up at the top of the stairs, where Tom quietly watched them in confusion.

"WOULD YOU CALL FOR A BLOODY AMBULANCE?" the doctor roared.

That time, the young Mrs. Cole obeyed without question, although she hesitated just long enough to murmur to the doctor, "Her right foot was floating above the first step, equal to the corridor floor, when she stepped with the left and tumbled," before she left.

Martha looked up to the top of the stairs, where Tom stood impassively looking down on them. His face was blank.

* * *

"In."

The doctor's voice was deathly cold; her tone brooked no room for argument. Tom meekly complied, shuffling into the infirmary in his nightclothes. There had been chaos in the orphanage since the lunch hour – with Miss Hackett taken to the hospital, there had been no teacher to take over for half the school aged children in the orphanage. Moreover, the staff had been fretting, mostly, over the woman and the doctor hadn't had the time to speak to him until the night. However, Tom was beginning to wish she hadn't been able to find the time at all.

Martha snapped the door shut behind him, then walked back to her desk. Tom followed her, frowning.

"I hope, for your sake," the doctor said, "that you did not think about the consequences of your impulses before you acted on them."

Tom blinked owlishly up at her. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he said.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Killing Miss Hackett seemed like a good idea at the time?" she inquired archly.

"Killing?" Tom yelped, alarmed and surprised. He honestly hadn't considered that the woman could get hurt on the stairs, let alone… "Dead like Arnie?" he asked.

"Thankfully no_t_," Doctor Elder said. The moment she saw Tom beginning to relax, she spoke again. "However, she suffered a concussion, a skull fracture, a fractured tibia, a dislocated shoulder and contused kidneys. That _only _because her fall was broken: she went down head first and the final impact could _easily _have snapped her _neck _if it had been straight against the floor."

Tom stared up at her in wide-eyed silence.

"Do you understand what I am telling you, Tom?" The doctor inquired, her tone cold. "If Mrs. Cole had not broken her fall _she would be dead_."

"But you said yesterday that she was a waste of life and the universe would be a better place without her," he said, confused.

A sound, almost like a groan, came from the dark side of the dimly lit infirmary.

Tom flinched. He had been hearing noises in the dark, late at night, quite often recently – usually higher pitched, almost giggle-like – and he didn't like it. When he looked back at the doctor, he found himself subject to her intense and piercing stare.

"You are a _little boy_," the doctor stressed. "What makes you think _you_ have the right to decide who lives and who _dies_?"

Tom's brows furrowed. "So," he slowly said, confused, "when I'm ….grown up and big, then…" He trailed off, feeling distinctly in over his head.

Doctor Elder regarded him with a cool, closed expression. Very slightly, she inclined her head. "Sometimes," she stated, "adults have to make that kind of decision. Whether the decision regards war, execution, self-defence or euthanasia: it should _never_ be made lightly."

She swallowed: this was not an action denoting discomfort or uncertainty nor one that made her position in any way weaker; it was as if she had done it purely for emphasis – to force the child to wait uncomfortably for her to finish what she had been saying.

"Understood?" she bit out.

Tom nodded, shaken by the cold treatment. It had, after all, been only one mistake: and he wasn't even _six_ yet.

The doctor observed him for a moment; then inclined her head sharply. "You know where the door is. Next time _think_ before you ac_t_."

Tom fled the room as fast as he could, cheeks red with embarrassment and shame. Not shame for what had almost happened – such things were, no matter how emphatically he was informed of them, still too abstract for the six year old to properly grasp. The shame came from the look on the doctor's face; the look of disappointment.

Eleanor rolled over on the bed and lit the paraffin lamp the doctor had placed on the small table next to the bed. "That went well," she said sarcastically. As an afterthought, she added, "Remind me: why am I staying here overnight?"

"Because, when Helen landed on you, your head hit the floor hard: I want to be sure you aren't going to suffer intracranial bleeding," the doctor replied. There was a pause. "At least this can be blamed on foolishness and a child's thoughtlessness, rather than maliciousness," she finally said.

Eleanor nodded and lay back against the pillows. "He didn't mean to hurt her badly," she pointed out, "but he didn't do it totally by mistake."

"I know," Martha said, sounding somehow defeated and tired: things she never would have expressed around most people. "Yet the look on his face…" she paused, shaking her head slightly. "It was like he thought he was protecting me." She glanced up at her patient and friend and quirked a brow, adding, "For the moment, at least, it would seem his motives are pure."

"Mary says he's been hearing things at night," Eleanor replied.

"Rosie?" Martha asked.

Eleanor's lips twisted, showing her unhappiness. "It would certainly seem so. The other children in the nursery don't know what to make of it, they don't hear anything."

There was a pause.

"They are going to question your motives more, now," Eleanor said quietly. "Helen's the one who has been suggesting that you… you were at the top of the stairs with her, Martha, and unless you want to explain the boy's abilities you must start giving a solid reason for spending so much time with him; else the talk might go beyond just that."

Martha, who knew perfectly well what Eleanor was suggesting, glanced at the least used door in her infirmary. "He will most likely avoid me for some time, considering what has just occurred," she replied, her tone similar to that of her friend, "and that would mark him as an outsider – more so than he already is – for the rest of his time here. Let's wait a few more months before making that decision."

* * *

Tom rolled over in his bed. He could tell by the sounds that everyone else was asleep, even though Denny wasn't snoring the way he usually did.

"Tom?" Dennis whispered, from his bed.

Tom immediately rolled over, surprised, to look at his friend. "Yes?" he whispered back.

"I saw her foot floating," Dennis whispered. "Why didn't you say you could do that?"

Tom's eyes widened. He was uncertain as to how he ought to respond: Dennis was his best – his only – friend, but the fickleness of the friendships he had seen among the other orphans made him question how much trust he could place in his own.

"I wasn't supposed to," he murmured finally.

"Oh," Dennis replied.

There was a pause in the dark.

"Could you show me?" Dennis asked; his voice quiet but clearly hopeful and excited.

Tom pondered this for a moment. Then he closed his eyes and focused, once more, on the properties of helium. The room was silent, baring the sounds of the children's soft breathing (and one baby's snores). Then Dennis giggled.

In the dark, Tom could just barely make out the silhouette of the smaller boy; sitting up and floating gently just above his bed.

Tom couldn't quite help the giggle of delight that escaped him – he had, after all, never managed to float a whole person before – and the two boys grinned at each other across the dark room.

As he gently lowered Dennis back down to his bed – a simple matter of slowly dispersing the cushion of helium that Tom had pulled from the air in the room – Tom whispered, "I'll show you more tomorrow, but you mustn't tell anyone!"

"Best friends," Dennis informed him in a whisper that managed to be not only exhilarated but also insanely happy and incredibly serious, "never tell."

Tom grinned.

* * *

**To Shawna: **Then I'm glad to say that I can occasionally make your morning brighter.

**To HowlinWolf:** It is that, and for that reason there will be no more head-holding-in-shame, okay?

Terribly sorry to have inadvertently tortured you, then – but you won't have to worry about me rushing these, with all that I'm working on I don't think I can or I'd upset my entire schedule. I'm glad you think that: building as much of the world as possible from every little detail I can pull from cannon was one of my major aims with this story.

**To Fanfic Groupie:** Firstly, I'd like to thank you for your amazingly in-depth review and tell you that I really appreciate it (although a lot of your comments have me struggling not to accidentally put spoilers in my responses, because a lot of the things you mentioned as things that need to be in there somewhere I have in my chapter plans for what I've yet to write and I essentially went through your comment and my list making little checks).

Second, in regards your quibble; don't worry, when you wrote that there were 31 chapters left to be written (all pre-planned since before I wrote chapter one) and they will be getting darker. Neglect, although indubitably unintentional (since J.K.R. described the matron as having "sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind" HBP13), would have been very easily possible – emotional neglect, that is – in such a place, because they were likely to have a large number of orphans and be unable to support a large staff, but I'd have to disagree when you conclude that physical violence would be probable from the lack of a "spare the rod, spoil the child" attitude. I don't qualify spanking as physical violence and I don't believe it does harm, moreover with the staff so outnumbered there would not have been much time for corporeal punishments.

As for the concerns about Tom's fears in regards the asylum and the possibility that his attacks on the others stemmed from being bullied, neither of which has been seen that much at the moment, there is very little I can say other than "don't worry, I've thought about it already and have plans" without offering out spoilers (and I'm not sure you'd appreciate that). You pointed out, quite logically, that the children would be likely to bully a child so obviously different from themselves. On the one hand; they haven't had much chance so far because Tom's only just coming out of the nursery, on the other hand: I called the story Little Differences because I'm of the opinion that little differences – rather than a few big ones – are more likely to disturb the people around the 'different' person and make them wary (i.e. the hippy who goes barefoot and wears beads in their hair is seen as "the hippy", while the person who dresses _almost_ the same way as everyone else is more off-putting; because they're difficult to label and you can't easily point out what's wrong with them). I'm terribly sorry about the length of some of these sentences – I'm afraid I tend to use inordinate amounts of dependant sub-clauses when I've been reading Latin poetry.

Ah, someone who doesn't take to Martha: this, I have to say, is a nice change. Well, as you later pointed out not every well cared for child becomes a well-adjusted member of society. More importantly, though, you can – if something happens – grow to despise a person, who you previously adored, and everything about them without all that much difficulty. Martha is also an extremely odd muggle – a female doctor when they were rare, an atheist when Christianity was still more than just the done thing, an actual suffragette in her youth, a woman both who wore trousers and was of Jewish decent – with a very high intellect. She is, essentially, just as alien to the muggles around her as Tom is; the sort of person who could be written off by any elitist as a 'one off', a 'rarity that doesn't make the rest of their kind worthy' or a 'special case' – a freak, if you will. She likes Tom, but she doesn't love him – nor has she ever professed to. Martha has one key role to play in Tom's young development: she treats him and him alone as special and worthy of her attentions, she's building the foundations – quite unintentionally – of his later feelings of entitlement. We generally see Tom's not-quite accurate view of the doctor, because she dotes upon him, but if you look carefully at some of the comments about her and her behavior around the other children (and much of the staff) she shows herself to be more than slightly elitist, vindictive and – essentially – acting in a way that, even then, was inappropriate for caring for children. The way she snapped at Amy and Dennis in chapter twenty-eight is a good example: even if you aren't going to spoil the child or spare the rod, you wouldn't treat children that way. Martha treats Tom much in the same way that Severus Snape treats Draco Malfoy – and both adults treat the other children in the area the same way, but since this story follows Tom it's not quite as obvious. Martha is essentially a good person, but a bad role model.

I can only assume that J.K.R.'s use of the term "psychopath" was a colloquial one, since what J.K.R. wrote as a character does not tally with my mother's first hand accounts of the psychopaths she worked with while a psychiatric nurse. Although I am trying to keep this as close to canon as I can, I can't help that I have a fundamentally different view of the universe (and concepts like good and evil) than the brilliant author who invented the characters I'm working with. As a result, however, I wind up questioning things which I technically know are writers tools, etc, and looking for within story explanations (for example: any wizarding child would have been a bit odd to muggles, so why did Dumbledore feel the need to get the matron drunk for information? Correspondingly, how trustworthy can we take this to be – although we know J.K.R. intended for it to be read the way it generally is – when it is memories specifically chosen by Dumbledore, which show only what Dumbledore himself could have observed, talking to a wary child and a drunk woman whose motivations – and possible grudges or habit of jumping to conclusions – we do not know?). Essentially, therefore, I am taking the text by the letter and not by what the author was 'clearly' implying. I suppose that means I'm taking a much more sympathetic view of Tom than the lady herself would have – and I respect that what I write can never perfectly match her work because of that. It's always going to seem a bit off, because I view the universe differently. Which is why you'll probably shake your head at me for saying that we don't know that Tom abused animals ("I can make animals do what I want, without training them" – it's Dumbledore's assumptions, and those of Mrs. Cole, if you go further than that and that could simply mean he had a natural talent for working with animals, indubitably not what J.K.R. was implying, but technically and logically plausible).

Many children are violent towards their 'peers' – for various reasons – are blatantly 'charming' only to get what they want (as are some adults: this is a trait shared by psychopaths but _not_ one _restricted_ to the insane and the 'bad'), have difficulty understanding things from others' points of view and therefore empathizing (that ability grows with age) and, if they can't find anyone to take their frustration out on, may well attack people's pets. Further, many bullies are known stealing and collecting things from their victims. Dudley Dursley, an ultimately sympathetically portrayed character by J.K.R., is a good example. To the more intelligent, his manipulation of his parents (pretending to cry in book one, etc) is blatantly obvious and he threw his turtle in a way that most likely killed it (also book one, when Harry get's the second bedroom, it's practically a footnote; but it's there) and it took him until book seven and the realization that there was a war going on (and that Harry was probably going to die) to actually empathize with the cousin he'd lived with and been physically violent toward for the majority of his life. Dudley Dursley therefore had all the same traits you listed for Tom, but we qualify him as a bully not a psychopath. I'm not saying that Voldemort wasn't a psychopath, it's just that I'm writing this story on the basis that what I see when I read the chapter on Tom-aged-eleven is a bitter, alienated boy who has taken to bullying, but who has not yet become mentally unstable. A child, if you will, on the verge of cracking but who had not yet cracked.

This reply is becoming far too long, and for that I apologize. I was thrilled to hear that you approve Rosie as a character and what I've done with Merope, although if I blush much more I shall likely be mistaken for a tomato. Once again, I was delighted by your critique and the thought you put into your review (although I suppose it is unlikely we will see eye to eye on some subjects, but it would be rare for it to be otherwise) and can only hope you continue to enjoy it through the rest of the thirty chapters.


	30. Rotten: December 31st, 1932

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty: Rotten**

"Has he learned to change things in other rooms yet?"

"I beg your pardon," Martha replied, glancing up from the shelf she had been organising to give Eleanor a look which clearly implied that she not only hadn't fully understood what – or, rather, why – she had said, but also that she was rather offended by the bluntness of it. All things considered, this latter was rather ironic.

"Tom Riddle," Eleanor repeated. "His… unusualness. Is it enough for him to change things in other rooms?"

"He can make a book float," the doctor replied, "IF he's sitting practically on its doorstep and thinking very hard about it. I told him not to practise for a while – while he wasn't to visit me – and told him it was an experiment in how well he retains his abilities if he doesn't use them. I believe he's still rather peeved about that."

"You," the young Mrs. Cole said, "are being deliberately obtuse."

"No. I'm being deliberately vague, there's a difference."

Eleanor huffed slightly, turned her eyes heavenward and bobbed her head slightly while shrugging. This was not at all an unusual human gesture of frustration and annoyance, it simply sounds unusual when one takes the time to explain it.

"I don't believe he can," Martha said firmly.

Eleanor nodded and began to stalk back out of the infirmary. "Then the little blighter's gotten into my things with the help of a third accomplice, rather than his…"

"Gift?" The doctor supplied.

Eleanor winced.

"What exactly do you mean by 'gotten into' and 'a third accomplice', anyway?" Doctor Elder inquired, brusquely.

Eleanor turned, in the doorway, and shut the door again. "I caught Samuel Chase and his friend Chester Bullock going through my things."

"My _personal _things," she emphasised, when it became clear that the doctor didn't seem particularly inclined to be upset about this.

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"My pants," the younger Mrs. Cole snapped. "After a long bit of protesting, in which they blamed everything from God to the orphanage cat, Samuel and Chester glanced at each other and admitted that Tom Riddle had helped them get in, owing to the fact that it was actually his idea."

"And you believed them," Martha said.

"Well they are his friends, aren't they?" Eleanor replied, exasperated. "Either way, I've dealt with all three of the little hooligans and they won't be doing it again – I just wish they would own up to the identity of their fourth little friend. It's probably Dennis Bishop, lord knows he'd follow Tom anywhere, but it wouldn't be right to punish him without proof."

"Did you have proof when you punished Tom?" Martha asked.

"Of course I did!" Eleanor exclaimed. "His fellow miscreants had turned him in!"

"Or were blaming him because they don't like him," the doctor said, somewhat bluntly.

"If he wasn't involved, why did he giggle when I told him what he'd done wrong? He seemed downright chuffed with himself, he did," Eleanor elucidated, giving a further reason, in her mind, as to why she was obviously right and, also in her mind, further justifying the actions she had taken.

With a sharp nod, Eleanor left the room.

"Perhaps because he found the situation amusing," Martha said to the empty room, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It was more of a smirk than anything else. "And it was your husband's idea of a …distraction."

* * *

"I hate her," Tom said. "She's mean and she's… she's not nice and I hate her!"

"Hate her!" Dennis echoed, following Tom into the nursery.

Mary frowned at the two. "That's not a very nice thing to say."

Tom frowned up at her. "I hate her," he reiterated.

Lucy, who was visiting, shifted her daughter in her arms and frowned back at him. "Your hair is a dreadful mess, Tommy," she said.

Tom frowned at her. "I hate hairbrushes," he stated.

"Hairbrushes," Dennis echoed.

"But Tom," Lucy asked, baffled by the six year old, "why on Earth would you hate hairbrushes?"

"They hurt," he told her shortly and, with an emphatic rub of his bottom, marched on past her.

"It's my birthday," he added plaintively, as he clambered onto his bed and rolled over to face the wall. "I didn't do anything."

Mary and Lucy traded concerned expressions. Lucy, however, was also slightly baffled – for she was not only rarely at the orphanage but also not certain who, precisely, Tom was talking about; while Mary was quite certain who was being discussed, as she had been there to observe the ever escalating animosity between the younger Mrs. Cole and the most talkative of her own little wards.

* * *

Henry Cole paced in the background, while Harold held his wife's hand in his own work-roughened and calloused hand. The eldest of the men in the room smiled bleakly down at his dried out and wrinkled wife, although he knew quite well that she was too tired to even return the gesture. The smile in response was only in her eyes.

Oblivious to it all, Sir John Blackwood prattled incessantly on. The man clearly was uncomfortable with the situation – although the small details, such as his audience paying more attention to each other than him, escaped him …or, perhaps, because of this – as he had no idea how to handle himself around someone who was so very seriously ill. Behind him, Henry Cole sincerely considered kicking the orphanage's patron. It was tempting.

"…and so, you see, with the modern financial crisis being what it is – not that it is likely to make trouble for me or, be default therefore, the care of the orphanage – and not that I'm in any way suggesting that it is going to last much longer (surely it cannot), it occurs to me that the …next Matron, if you'll excuse my saying so, will simply need to be a better bookkeeper than you have been: there's no use wasting money, and all that, hehe!" Sir John continued, his discomfort audible in the long babbling tangents he went off on – each, amazingly, made of a single (apparently unending) sentence.

"Sir John?" Henry interrupted, barely managing to reign in his instinct to simply tell the other man to stop talking.

Glad for the distraction, the man in question turned toward the youngest of the three men in the room. "Yes?"

Henry ran a hand through his hair. "Mother has already considered all of that – she even wrote up a list of possible replacements, with details of the preferable order and why she deemed them worthy, for you to consider," he explained, somewhat hesitantly, as if he expected to be yelled at for interrupting. "That was before she took to bed because of the breathing problems," he added, quietly.

Sir John dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. "That would be …most appreciated, young man," he replied, audibly relieved. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to direct me to it?"

Henry looked at him for a moment, then at his parents' large bed and finally, with clear regret and reluctance, led the well-dressed man out of the room and to the Matron's Office. He only paused for a moment in the doorway, debating whether or not to make the entire situation more uncomfortable by telling his mother that he loved her, before he left, just in case.

In that moment, however, his parents only had eyes for each other. The stoic and reserved old man held his wife's hand tightly as he smiled brokenly at her – and she stared back up at him, love downright twinkling in her tired eyes. The man moved slowly, to pat his wife's thin white hair – the loving strokes quite unusual for the normally gruff Mister Harold Cole.

"Oh, Sam," he murmured softly, both because he was at a loss for words (having always been more inclined to silence than speech) and because it seemed like the most appropriate thing to say at the time.

"Harry," the frail old woman breathed; a considerable effort as she was barely getting enough air through her rotten lungs to keep her alive, never mind speaking. In spite of this, she managed to smile up at her husband of thirty-eight years, her eyes shining as she did.

Something, however, had tickled her throat when she had breathed her husband's name – too weak and too tired to do more than that – and the moment was soon ruined as she lapsed into a heavy coughing fit of deep, hacking coughs and desperate wheezing. In that brief time she squeezed her husband's hand harder than she had in days.

All too soon, the coughing fit was over – leaving Samantha gently laid back on the bed, by her husband, as her soft wheezing grew slower and her lips turned blue.

If Harold Cole had not been the quiet sort of man, he might have expressed some of the thoughts echoing in his head at the time – words like _'No, Sam, no, please,'_ and _'Just a few more days, honey, please; just a few more days: you promised you'd make it until our anniversary, remember?'_ – but he had always been a quiet man, and so he remained at his wife's bedside in silence, clutching her cooling hand while his eyes watered.

"Well, that all seems to be in order," Sir John said, shuffling papers as he entered the room, only to nearly crash into Henry Cole – who he had been following, and who had frozen in place upon entry.

Henry, for his part, stared wide-eyed at his parents' bed, unable – or perhaps unwilling – to comprehend what his senses confirmed and what he instinctively knew to be true. "Mum?" he asked, in a choked and disbelieving whisper, appearing almost faint as he did.

"Go get Doctor Elder," Sir John told him, immediately.

Henry did not move – he did not, could not, tear himself away from the sight of his father's shaking shoulders; one of the few signs of the older man's muffled sobs.

The moment that he recognised that, Sir John was out the door again and barrelling toward the stairs; bellowing, quite rightfully so, for the doctor as he did. He was still heading up the stairs when he met Doctor Elder, medical bag in hand, going down them. He pressed himself against the wall to allow the doctor to pass him, then turned as fast as he could and followed the doctor on her way.

* * *

"Time of death: approximately seven forty-two in the evening," the doctor coolly stated, snapping her pocket watch closed.

"Approximate?" Eleanor inquired, somewhat sharply, from the corner of the room while the doctor filled out the necessary paperwork.

"She was already dead by the time I got here," Doctor Elder replied blandly. "The coroner, Janvier, could have made a more definite stab at the time had he been here, but I am no coroner and bodies cool rapidly. Since no one thought to stop the clocks at the appropriate time, and the coroner is unfortunately snowed in at the present time and therefore unavailable, the number may be off by several minutes. It is, however, not substantially inaccurate."

Henry made strangled noise and lent against the comforting arm of Sir John, the only one in the room – other than the doctor – who was not a member of the family and therefore able to provide a miniscule amount of comfort to the only one of the three who did not appear to be completely lost in their own grief.

Carefully, Doctor Elder closed the eyes of the cadaver and, having already pulled the blankets from on top of it, replaced the top sheet; ensuring that it covered the head of the body as she did.

"The staff will need to be informed," she said.

"They'll also need me to tell them who the new Matron is," Sir John added, nodding toward Eleanor. "That is, if you feel up to the meeting at the moment, my dear."

The young Mrs. Cole gave the man a startled and baffled look.

"Samantha Cole only listed one recommendation for the new Matron," he explained, "_you_."

* * *

"The adults are being strange," Tom told Dennis as they stood outside a door they were not supposed to enter. "And Mrs. Cole was mean to me, so I be mean back. Do into udders, like Mary and the Reverend always say." Tom scrunched up his nose, he didn't really understand what udders had to do with anything, but the Reverend seemed to know what he was talking about, so they had to fit in somewhere.

Dennis stared at him, wide-eyed, and shook his head somewhat frantically, while nibbling (although either 'chewing' or 'slobbering' might be a more appropriate choice of word) on the front of his tunic shirt.

"I'm not going to touch anything," Tom cajoled his friend, "just look around."

Dennis blinked at him, the front of his shirt falling from his mouth as he spoke, "How's that help?"

"I know why she sad, then," Tom explained, feeling as if Dennis must surely be an idiot because the plan was blatantly obvious. "I just have to say the right-wrong thing. She hurt my bum, I hurt her here," he extrapolated, jabbing a finger at his chest (on the wrong side for his actual heart, but close enough to get the point across, because he was – after all – only just six: not even, if one counted that he was born around eleven in the night) as he did. "She had no reason to hurt my bum."

Dennis, who had somehow managed to return the front of his shirt to his mouth without employing his hands, shook his head again – although very tentatively, as he very rarely did not go along with whatever Tom suggested (occasionally Tom found this highly annoying).

Tom shrugged at him. "Then be lookout," he said. With that, and a brief struggle to open the door, Tom disappeared into the bedroom.

* * *

The staff had assembled quickly, only knowing that an emergency staff meeting had been called and most completely unaware of Sir John's frantic run to alert the doctor some fifteen minutes earlier. They were, however, quicker to spot the tear stains on all three remaining Coles' faces.

"Has something happened?" Lucy asked in concern, although she was not technically a member of the staff.

"Has Samantha had more difficulties?" Jonathan inquired, worry surprisingly clear in his voice.

The three Coles and Sir John glanced at each other rather helplessly.

"I regret to inform you," said Doctor Elder, "that Samantha Cole is, in fact, dead."

"WHAT?" someone yelped – that voice, most likely Mary's, the clearest in the hubbub which the comment had started.

Sir John stood, raising his hands to signal that he wanted silence, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Emphysema's terminal," Harold said bleakly. "We always knew it was just a matter of time."

The suspicious looks one or two of the staff had given the doctor immediately ceased, replaced by clear sympathy for the deceased's family and flickers of shame for their own suspicions.

"Before she died," Sir John said as gently as he could, "Samantha Cole left a recommendation for who would be the best person to take her place. It is therefore with confidence, although a heavy heart accompanies it, that I present Mrs. Eleanor Cole to you as the new Matron."

* * *

Tom cautiously crept forward – toward the bed, which they weren't supposed to go near because Mrs. Samantha was tired and resting all the time – in the dimly lit room. He'd heard a staff meeting was called, but judging by the big lump in the bed Mrs. Samantha hadn't felt well enough to attend it. She probably had a headache – people always lifted sheets over their heads when they took to bed with a rather bad headache.

Tom wondered if anyone had tried giving her a hug, while he clambered up onto the chair that had been left by the bedside, since the orphans who remembered their parents often talked about how they remembered being hugged and how it made them feel better.

Carefully, Tom reached out with a little hand and pulled back the sheet.

* * *

"I know everyone's rather …stunned by everything that's had to be discussed so far, in this meeting," Eleanor said. "It's been quite the ordeal for me, as well." Then she glanced sideways at the doctor, who had migrated to the least occupied and most out of the way corner of the stuffy little staffroom, and – upon receiving a nod – continued, "But there was one other change I wished to inform you of before we split up to accomplish our various duties." It was clear from the tone of her voice that she was more than slightly reluctant to continue, but she did; "I know it must seem horrid of me to do this today of all days, but the truth is that we waited in the hope that it would prove to be unnecessary – because we knew it would break my mother's heart to see another one moved there – and we may have waited too long."

The majority of the staff exchanged confused looks.

Eleanor Cole cleared her throat. "Tom Riddle is being moved to the Disturbed Room," she stated.

"Tom?" Jonathan repeated, stunned. "Sweet little Tom? To the Disturbed Room? But he's so smart! He's never shown any sings of... of…"

"Audio-visual hallucinations," Doctor Elder interrupted, "according to Miss Bonner the child hears voices every night, he believes he sees a dead girl. Moreover, the child – for all that he is highly intelligent – is showing signs of difficulty interacting with his so-called peers. A greater majority of that last may be due to bullying and jealousy on the part of the other children, but he has difficulty reacting appropriately to them. He is currently a danger only to himself, but he needs more constant supervision than the normal dormitories can provide."

"I don't see how he could be a danger to anybody!" Simon replied, indignantly. "It sounds like a case of over-active imagination to me."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "And if he follows this hallucination out of a second or third storey window because 'she' convinces him that he can float the way she does?" she inquired pointedly.

The majority of the staff shuddered involuntarily at the thought, but Mr. Stone stared at the doctor; having come to a sudden realisation.

"That's what you were doing," he said, surprise and relief clear in his enlightened tone. "All this time we thought… you've been helping…" The teacher paused, mainly to unscramble the sentences he had been trying to form, before saying with great finality, "I'm glad Helen was wrong about you, Doctor."

"Thank you, Jonathan," the doctor replied in a cool, dry tone, "I accep_t _your _apology_."

That was when they heard the scream.

* * *

"He's a rotten child, sometimes," Mrs. Cole said.

Tom, who was lying – supposedly asleep – between the sheets of his brand new bed in his brand new room (Tom wasn't sure he liked the idea of having a room to himself: it was special, but he thrived on company) begged to differ. He wasn't the one who'd left Mrs. Samantha out to rot like Arnie, after all.

"He didn't know," Tom heard Martha reply (they were apparently looking in on him, although he thought it seemed silly to stand in a doorway and talk while watching him apparently sleep).

Mrs. Cole sighed. "I know," she murmured.

There was a pause.

"He'll probably have nightmares, you know," Mrs. Cole said.

Tom couldn't see for certain, but he was fairly sure Martha nodded before she spoke.

"I'll be here," Martha said.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" Mrs. Cole asked. "Telling them all that so that they'll stop questioning why he spends so much time with you?"

"Considering that the alternative was, as you have said, attempting to explain what he can do?" Martha countered.

"I suppose you are right, or I am right," Mrs. Cole replied, tiredly, correcting herself as she spoke, which was ironic; for they were, after all, in agreement. "If we look at this positively, he did get a new room for his birthday."

Martha 'hmmm'ed in agreement and Tom could see the light disappear as they closed the door and walked away. Tom didn't want a new room for his birthday, he wanted Mrs. Samantha Cole back – but he couldn't have her, because she was dead.

…and there was only one Mrs. Cole left.

* * *

**A/N: **

**To LadyAngel95:** That's …incredibly high praise. I'm not entirely sure I know how to respond to it. I just hope my writing continues to live up to your expectations. As for an answer to your question: well spotted.


	31. The Lady: January 1st, 1933

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One: The Lady**

As it was winter, the early morning light had yet to begin it's infiltration of London. That didn't bother Mrs. Cole in the slightest – except in that it meant anyone up before it became in the least bit light would be using power (or, possibly, candles) and therefore spending money on what was essentially a frivolity – but, then, very little seemed to bother her at the time. Mostly, one presumes, because very little caught her attention at the time. Her tea, for instance, which had long sat on the table – steaming as it did – where it had been lovingly placed by her husband, had long grown cold.

Henry and Harold had taken their grief – and their tea, for none of the family (of what remained of the family) had slept well that night – through to the younger Coles' bedroom. The coroner was still on his way and so Harold had been unwilling to go back into his room – where his late wife lay – and to all the Matron's office still felt too much like it was Samantha's place; in a way she was still too present there. Father and son had taken comfort, and comforted, in the presence of the other.

Eleanor Cole had not been able to bring herself to join them. For the first time since long before she had married into the family, she felt like an outsider. She did not know how to deal with the grief of her husband and father-in-law and so, she avoided it. That is not to say that she did not grieve, only that she did not know how to deal with it in others. She had been orphaned, herself, when she was very young – so young that she could hardly remember her own parents – and it made it difficult to fully understand what her husband was going through. Or so she presumed.

She had not grieved for a lost loved one before – she had not grieved for her parents, when she'd lost them, for she'd been too young to fully grasp what was happening – and, in spite of how ridiculous it seemed, she was afraid she would do it wrong.

Instead she sat in the hard kitchen chair, in the artificial light, twisting a cheap cigar between her fingers.

She didn't even notice when a hand removed the tea.

A few minutes of, unnoticed, clinking (amongst other noises) later, a fresh – steaming – cup of tea was set down in front of her. The hand that placed it there then knocked sharply on the table, almost directly in front of her (which made the tea slosh slightly in its container).

Eleanor jerked and looked up in surprise, having just noticed the tea and been surprised by the sound.

Simon gave her a sad, tired, smile. "English breakfast," he told her nodding to the tea, "white with one – just the way you like it."

Mrs. Cole shook her head bleakly. "You shouldn't have bothered," she said.

"You can't stand to drink it black," Simon replied mildly, recognising that it was not the tea itself that she was objecting to.

"We cannot afford such frivolities," she replied, although her tone was even – in a not-there-somewhat-dead sort of way.

Simon shrugged and gently pushed the beverage closer to her. "Nevertheless, the sugar and milk are in there now – it would be more of a waste to _not _drink it," he told her. Then he nodded slightly at the cigar, trying to keep the Matron from sinking back into apathetic silence, and said, "What's all this, then?" in the most comical tone he could muster.

The humour went completely unnoticed as Mrs. Cole sighed and turned the cigar between her fingers one last time. She was still staring at it. "I gave it to her," she explained, knowing full and well that precisely who 'her' was needed no defining, "for Christmas. She knew she wouldn't live much longer and she wanted one last cigar – there's no point having lived if you haven't lived, she said." Quite suddenly, she broke off, shutting her eyes tightly in an attempt to fight back tears. When she spoke again it was incredibly fast, in an attempt to get out what she needed to say before her voice cracked again. "She never got around to smoking it."

Simon gently reached out and brought the young Matron's other hand down to grasp her teacup. "Keep your pecker up, duck," he said, "and drink your tea: it's a bit crass to make me be mother twice in one morning – all things considered."

That, finally, got a more active response from the Matron, who gave him a sharp look. "Don't be a smart arse, Simon," she said, trying to be stern.

Simon laughed quietly and stood – to Eleanor's surprise, as she had not even noticed him sit down across from her – and moved over to the bench. "What do you want for breakfast?" he asked. "And don't be mean about it –I know we can't afford to have people eating both in one meal, with the way things are, but I'm not telling you whether the kippers or the rashers are more expensive, so you're going to have to pick your favourite."

For the first time in what felt like years, although it had been only a few short hours, Eleanor Cole laughed (albeit somewhat brokenly) as she picked up her tea. "Kippers, Simon," she said. "Kippers would be lovely."

* * *

Tom was cold. He didn't know why, but he was. That, in part, was indubitably due to the fact that he was still asleep.

There had been cold sensations travelling across his back, in circles, for some time before he began to wake, but it was not until the icy, wet touches moved up to his face that he actually started to stir.

"G'way, 'osie," he mumbled, burrowing deeper into his bedding.

There was a brief pause – as if the cold was considering his words – and then the strokes of cold and wet started trailing along his cheek again. Struggling to evade the chill, Tom squirmed further into his bedding; he was trying, unsuccessfully, to pull his blankets up over the cheek under assault as he blearily opened his eyes.

The thing leaning over him was the same silvery colour as Rosie, but it was far bigger. Its face was sunken, haggard and gaunt, like its thin – dripping – hair. The eyes were fathomless – sunken into the skull and surrounded by darker-silver rings, they might as well have been empty eye sockets; it might even have been less disturbing. Although its bones were not visible, the outline of where they were could clearly be seen through the thin, tightly stretched, skin. One of its cold and gnarled hands was extended, hovering only a short distance about Tom's face and hair – if it suddenly chose to drop that hand it would indubitably close around the child's neck. The arm holding up the silvery, see-through, hand lowered slowly, as the hand reached out to run a dead finger along Tom's cheek and jaw. In spite of the chilling feeling, he barely noticed it. His attention was focused on the part of the thing's neck that had been revealed when the arm lowered – the part which was almost directly above his own chest, for the thing was leaning over him as he lay in his bed. It was the part of the neck which bled silvery droplets, onto Tom's bedding, and which appeared to have been sliced through the way a knife oft cuts pieces of toast in two.

Tom blinked up, cold and confused.

There was a lady – who looked as dead as she was – leaning over him, who had been touching him while he slept.

Tom screamed.

* * *

Martha Elder typically kept her promises. She had promised to watch over Tom Riddle on his first night in the Disturbed Room, so she did just that. She listened for any sign of trouble from her desk, which was quite near the door of his room. She had not, however, promised to deal with an irritable Mary Bonner at the same time – nor, for that matter, had she agreed to play host to the Blackwoods (all three of them) until they could leave, seeing as they were snowed in. None of those people, however, seemed to be aware of that, no matter how many times she told them they were unwelcome, and so she was almost relieved to hear the terrified scream in the wee hours of the morning. Any relief she might have felt, though, was lost when her unwelcome companions decided to follow her (as if she was not capable of doing her job on her own!).

She would later hold that she did not take satisfaction in slamming the door shut in their faces when she briskly sought out the terrified child. She had taken great satisfaction in it. She never bothered to deny having purposefully kicked a chair over to where it jammed the door handle, either.

The first thing she noticed was that the terrified child was lying very still, starring directly upward in terror. The second thing she noticed was that she could see his breath as it would be if he were out in a snowstorm. That is not merely to say that his breath was visible as it would be in extreme cold, but also that it moved oddly, as if there was some other wind interrupting its travels.

The doctor kept her voice low and steady, not willing to allow her unwelcome visitors to overhear her, brandishing the old fashioned paraffin lamp she had taken with her (leaving the infirmary in darkness) as she did. "Leave," she said, her tone cold and clear.

There was a long pause, in which the silence was only broken by Tom's fast and shallow breaths.

She couldn't actually see what the …presence did, but she noticed that Tom's breath was becoming less visible with each exhalation and that the cold air seemed to have moved to the furthest point from both the living beings. The small wall mirror that had been left in the room when Tom moved in began to fog up.

It was with a strange, twisted, feeling in her gut that Doctor Elder realised the presence had moved over to the place where the bed had rested some six years earlier, on another cold winter's night. The foggy mirror was too high up for Rosie's presence to have been able to affect it, which meant that – unless there were others, like some of the stranger ragged people Tom had previously sworn he'd seen on London's streets – there was only one person it could be.

Tom sat up, slowly, in his bed, pulling the covers around himself and huddling against his knees. "Tha?" he whispered. "There's a lady in my new room."

"I am aware of that," Martha replied evenly, cautiously observing the place where the …lady logically had to be as she did. "You've seen her before. Once, a very long time ago – when the Bishop boy had just started following you around, jabbering. You said you'd seen an ugly lady in this room, waving."

Tom stared up at her, his dark eyes wide.

"You waved back. Do you remember?"

Tom shook his head, slightly. "Why is she here?" he whispered.

"She died here," Martha replied. She gestured toward the space under the mirror with a tilt of the head and slight extension of the hand holding the lamp. "There was a bed right over there; I believe you have been told the story. There used to be a small table next to it and a clock over the infirmary-side door."

Tom blinked up at her, uncomprehending. "She's dripping," he told the doctor, "from her neck." There was something in the tone – something rarely heard in Tom's voice – that seemed to imply that he was telling her because he thought she could make it all better.

Martha Elder almost winced. The orphanage staff had told Tom that his mother had died in childbirth – not from suicide – so the only way that Tom could know the lady's neck would be dripping was if he was really able to see the dead. The last of the doctor's doubts on the matter left her at that point.

"Why are you here?" she addressed the space by the mirror. "Do you not trust me to keep my word? I told you I would take care of him."

Tom seemed torn between staring at her in awe and staring at the mirror in amazement.

A line appeared in the fog.

Then another appeared.

A third line soon followed, its size and shape suggestive of a finger being drawn along the foggy mirror.

_N,_ it said.

Martha nearly dropped the lamp.

Tom made a terrified little gasping noise and cuddled as close to the wall as he did. Unlike Martha, he could see the lady's bony finger slowly tracing out the letters …and he could see her dead, gaunt, face reflected in the mirror.

Finally, the whole message was visible, although fading fast.

_ Not mother. Myne._

Martha raised an eyebrow. "You are dead," she replied bluntly, her words calculated to hurt. "He doesn't _need __**you**_ anymore."

Tom was the only one who saw the ugly look on the lady's face. She turned to him, reaching out with one pale, bony, dead hand and he pressed himself even closer to the wall, shaking his head frantically. He couldn't bring himself to feel sympathy for the lady as she gave him one, last, broken look and disappeared through one of the walls.

Only once she was gone did Tom leap from the bed and hurry over to the door leading to the corridor (and the doctor, who had slowly moved across the room during the course of the 'conversation').

Martha reached out with her free hand, in a silent offer.

"I don't need to be carried," Tom snapped, pulling his blankets closer around him.

Martha nodded and placed the hand on his shoulder, indicating toward the door. "A warm drink," she said, "to wash away the night terrors."

* * *

Giggles had seemed to surround the breakfast table.

Giggles had seemed to surround him as he had eaten lunch.

Giggles most certainly had been surrounding him while he had eaten his supper.

Tom glowered at the other children, from the fireside chair he had commandeered (although, as it had previously been Samantha's chair by habit, no one else had attempted to sit there).

According to the staff, he had suffered from nightmares after Samantha's death – they had politely left out the fact that he had actually seen her dead body right up close – and had woken, screaming, because of them in the very early hours of the morning.

According to the staff, he'd had quite a fright and had therefore allowed his overactive imagination to run away with him all day – that, they said, was why the lady had been following him around all day, skulking in the empty corners of rooms and watching him; gurgling occasionally.

According to the staff, when they didn't think any of the children were around to overhear them, he had been hallucinating because he was – in the doctor's words – 'a bit off'.

According to the orphans, he was a raving loony.

All it had taken was one pair of careless orphanage workers and one orphan to overhear them and the entire population of orphans there on Vauxhall Road had happily become convinced that the boy – who was 'a bit odd' and different in a slight, un-pinpointable and previously indefinable, way – was _disturbed_. They had all the evidence they needed, since he had foolishly informed Martha in public at one point that the lady was still following him and – after all – he had been placed in the Disturbed Room.

Dennis had been the only one to stand by him.

Some mocked him mercilessly (like Samuel Chase and his friends), others gave him not at all subtle pitying glances as they passed him, others again simply scurried away and moved to the other sides of corridors and rooms as he passed; as if afraid that he could contaminate them and they could 'catch' his 'madness' from his presence alone.

Their whispers followed him everywhere.

The avoidance and the mockery were really only exaggerated versions, since word had gotten out of his 'insanity', of that which he had suffered before.

Only Dennis and the little ones – like Amy, who were too young to understand – remained unbothered by his presence.

His fellow orphans didn't like him.

He couldn't honestly say he liked them all that much, either.

…that was, of course, why he had chosen to read to Dennis in the most popular part of the crowded drawing room.

* * *

** A/N:** I had hoped to be able to write six chapters (two for each of the three stories – not all of which are fanfiction – I am currently working on) a month – the rough equivalent of 30,000 words – but I soon discovered that I was quite unable to do so. It turns out that I actually both have a bit of a life and need sleep to be able to function. I will, indubitably, be able to get at least one chapter out a month, but I cannot make any promises nor would I advise raised hopes for more than that. I'm sorry – but I can't write more of the story if I kill myself trying.

**To Shawna:** I'm glad you think so. He does hear voices: it is Rosie.

**To Jen103:** Thank you.

**To LadyAngel95:** Hmm, I suppose it makes sense when you put it like that. To tell the truth I don't actually read on this site much anymore, I think I originally stopped because of the poor writing. Yes, I did plan ahead (I'm not sure whether I'm more glad that you liked how I got Martha out of that or that my planning shows). When I first started the story I had a rough plan of when in the story I wanted the events to happen, but very quickly I found myself with a complete chapter listing and all the relevant information (approximate date, what happens in the chapter, relevant historical data, notable lines and character moments, etc) noted beneath each numbered chapter title. The plan is fifty-eight chapters and an epilogue (probably chapter length, itself). However, I don't believe that all the occurrences that made Tom what he was happened before he was formally introduced to the concept of magic and so a lot of what eventually makes him that – in the plan I'm working to – would happen after _Little Differences_ is a completed story. Of course, I do have rough plans for eight subsequent (and comparatively short) stories chronologically following this one. It's a bit like how _The Brothers Karamazov_ was supposed to be a prologue to a main story that the author didn't get to write before he died. I do hope it gets better, or at least continues to be of a quality high enough for you to enjoy it.

** To LavenderStorm:** Considering how quickly you read my story, then, I suppose I really ought to apologise for keeping you waiting (both for a chapter and a reply) for this long. Believe me, I know. I wish I could have made it a bit faster at the beginning – and I knew when I made the decision that I would probably discourage a lot of people from continuing because of it – but I felt that I needed the time when Tom wasn't able (and therefore wasn't expected to) be actively doing things to properly introduce and bring depth to the many, many, characters on the staff (who I had to build from nothing) and to properly paint the background of the era. I'm delighted to know that you felt it was worth your while to continue. I'm also quite thrilled to know that you find my work realistic (that was one of my biggest goals when I started this project – the result, I'm afraid, of seeing people give him an iPod while in the orphanage one too many times – and, to be perfectly frank, the fact that you can see Tom as I've written him evolving into the Tom we see in canon has practically got me tap-dancing over the moon. I can only hope that this chapter, and those that follow, continue to live up to your expectations.


	32. Seekng Heaven: January 1st and 2nd, 1933

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Seeking Heaven**

Tom had been distinctly less than eager to go to bed. Considering that he had woken up that morning to find a dead woman leaning over him curiously, that was fairly understandable, but being understandable didn't change the fact that it also made it insanely difficult to get him to go to bed.

It would, perhaps, have been significantly less difficult if Mary – in an attempt to sooth his fears – had not given him a small crucifix on a chain (the necklace was, actually, quite a bit too big for him) to 'ward away the spirit'… not, actually, because she believed there was a spirit, but simply because she thought it would calm Tom down. Unfortunately, it was an act that the doctor – who had become, with his switching rooms, his primary caretaker – did not take kindly to. Somehow, although no one could recall precisely how, after Martha had ripped the religious symbol from Tom's bed frame and shoved it back into Mary's hands, the entire matter had degraded from a row into an all out screaming match in which the words 'godless heathen', 'religious zealot', 'heartless witch', 'penniless whore', 'demon woman', 'delusional bible-thumping cockade' and 'bloody Jew' were used liberally and, with every insult thrown across the room, the crucifix – on it's chain – was flung violently at the other party …as if some sort of bizarre projectile weapon. There might even have been more unpleasantness, had it not been for the fact that Tom dissolved into another fit of screaming when the lady attempted to place her hands over his ears – presumably in an attempt to protect him from hearing the many vulgarities that so liberally decorated the …discussion.

Worse still, when the two (living) women had stopped screaming at each other long enough to take care of Tom's concerns, the only thing they had been able to agree on was that there was no such thing as ghosts (Mary had thankfully, and rather smugly, assumed that Martha had pretended to speak with one to sooth him when Tom had looked at the doctor with an expression of disconcertingly cynical disbelief and reminded her that she had just been talking to one that morning). Martha had coldly explained that one ceased to exist after one died, because there was no longer energy in the brain, and that she had told him that before, while Mary had prattled on about angels and hell and being 'with God' – something Tom thought was particularly stupid and illogical, since the Reverend had said that God was everywhere last time they were in church – and, in Tom's opinion, neither of the possibilities sounded very nice. None of that, however, had changed the fact that there was still a dead lady standing on the other side of the room.

Nevertheless, in spite of everything, Tom had eventually conceded and gone to bed. However, he had spent the majority of the night awake in his bed; looking and listening out for signs that the dead lady was going to return to terrorise him again. Although the lady had never shown, Tom simply had not been able to sleep – his own fears and the quiet singing from the end of the dark corridor had seen to that.

While he was awake in the darkness it had been frightening – not, in fact, because it was dark and he could not see, but because he knew perfectly well that someone on the staff would have done something about it if one of the children who were under their watch during the night was the one responsible for the singing. No one else had stirred all night. Yet Tom had lain awake; ill at ease with the knowledge that no one alive in that orphanage could have been the one he had heard singing at night for more days (or nights) than he could count. He also knew that, the last time she had come, the nursery had been set on fire – she was dangerous. However it was the childish innocence and glee with which the song was sung that truly frightened him. There was something disturbing about the unseen (dead) child singing in the dark – as if urging him to come out and play …and if he tripped on the stairs and fell to his death? Well, then they could play forever.

Morning light would soon start to slip into the orphanage, but the laughter, singing and giggles would not stop until then. Until then Tom would most likely continue to lie in his bed, too scared to sleep.

There was a giggle in the distance.

"Ring a-ring o roses," sang the child's voice in the dark.

Tom clutched his blankets in his small hands. He couldn't help but imagine her – the unearthly silver glow of her: the only light in the otherwise complete blackness – twirling at the edge of the staircase as she sang: waiting for him to play, waiting for him to fall.

"A pocket full of posies," the little girl's voice continued as it echoed down the corridor.

Tom, if possible, tensed further as the full implications of Rosie's voice coming down the corridor became apparent to him. She could not possibly be waiting for him by the stairs, because his room was right next to the staircase and her voice was coming from far away.

"A-tishoo! A-tishoo!"

She was down the same end of the corridor she had once set on fire; by the nursery. Perhaps even in the nursery – with Dennis and Amy, and the others – perhaps she was searching the beds for him. He shuddered to think of what might happen when she didn't find him.

"We all fall down!"

There was a giggle in the corridor. It sounded closer than the last.

Tom closed his eyes tightly. He very much wanted to leap from his bed, dash through the infirmary-side door of his new bedroom and to Martha's side – being able to take care of himself, while it was something Tom preferred, had never stood in the way of having someone to protect him. Only two thoughts kept him in his bed: that he would be handing Sammy and the others something to tease him with if they found out he'd been running about at night and that, if he moved, she would hear him …and then she would find him.

There was a giggle in the dark.

Tom knew that there was nothing to be ashamed of since most six year olds had a time when they were afraid of the monster in the dark…

"Ring a-ring o roses…"

…of course their monsters weren't usually real.

* * *

"Maas? Maas."

Tom woke confusedly, blinking his bleary and sticky-feeling eyes. Martha Elder was looking down at him, clearly concerned, and several strands of her hair – which hung loose around her face – clung stubbornly to her face. Still half-asleep, Tom reached out and gently pushed the strands away, his little fingers trailing clumsily over her jaw and mouth as he did.

"Yes, I know," the doctor said in a tone that was sharp but neither unfriendly nor mean-spirited. "It is unfashionably long. I have no doubt that Eleanor and Mary will begin urging me to have it cut to a 'nice bob' soon."

Tom blinked vaguely at her.

"Exactly how much sleep have you had, brat?" Martha asked, frowning as she ran a finger across the lower edge of his right eye socket.

Tom continued to stare muzzily up at her.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Clearly not enough, then," she stated. "Why didn't you come to find me when you had trouble sleeping?"

"Was scared," was the only audible part of Tom's reply.

The doctor continued to stare levelly at him.

Tom shifted uncomfortably. "If I'd moved she would have heard me," he explained, yawning as he did. "Then she would have followed me."

"Then why didn't you elect to use the infirmary-side door?" Martha asked, exasperated. "That is, of course, presuming she was in the corridor."

Tom frowned at the normally very intelligent adult. "If there's only two rooms," he explained slowly, so as not to confuse the adult, "and I haven't gone out one, I can only have exited through the other one. The ins'ant she sees the second door she'll know."

"So, what would happen," Martha inquired, "if she couldn't see the other door? Would you come find me next time this sort of thing happens?"

Tom sat up, rubbing his left eye while staring at her with his right. "You can't make a door invis'ble," he told her seriously, yawning only once during the statement.

Martha actually smirked at him in reply; her eyes turning pointedly to the tall wardrobe standing against the wall. "Can't you?"

* * *

"The woman's bloody mad," said the man with the saw.

"I don't think so," his, younger, companion replied. "If it helps the child and keeps him out of trouble…"

The older man snorted. "Waste of a perfectly good wardrobe, if you ask me."

"Unless you are doing something very, very wrong, Mister Cole," Martha replied from her desk, "it should remain a perfectly functional wardrobe once you are done with it."

Harold Cole snorted and waved his saw at her (causing his younger companion, Henry, to jerk backward just to get out of the way). "That is far easier for you to say, while you sit their sipping tea. You aren't the one who has to do the work. I would have thought a suffragette," he stated with a slight sneer, "such as yourself would want to do an equal share of work as the men. Isn't that what you were fighting for?"

Martha quirked an eyebrow, with a faint – almost non-existent – smile (or, more likely, smirk) pulling at her lips as she raised her teacup in a silent toast to the labouring men. "The human male is usually anatomically sturdier in the upper body than the average female of the species," she informed them, "which makes them quite perfect for heavy lifting."

* * *

Mary found the child crying in the basement classroom. She had been hearing strange snuffling noises on several occasions when she passed by the staircase that day, running after various orphans in various states of misbehaviour (so far she had counted: two running with scissors, one attempting to decorate the walls – how that particular tot had gotten her hands on Lucy's paints when the woman didn't even live in the orphanage anymore was beyond Mary's imagination, three who thought that slippery tiles and socks were a good combination at high speed and one new arrival who had almost missed lunch while waiting at the door for his mother to come for him).

She had just finished ushering the new arrival into the dining hall – she had never been more thankful to Harold Cole for immediately taking charge of the boy – when she had heard the snuffling for the last time and had decided to investigate. To her relief, the child who had taken refuge in the lowest part of the orphanage was not injured, but tearful.

Tom Riddle was curled up in the most well hidden and out of the way corner he could find (and well out of the line of sight of anyone peering into the room from the staircase or door) with Chauncey, the old orphanage cat, curled up in his lap. A small toy monkey sat next to them, still wearing more of its hair than the old cat was.

In spite of the slight snuffling noises the boy was making (with his face buried in the cat's side), Mary couldn't help but smile sadly at the somewhat gloomy scene – he probably did not know it, but Tom was the only child that the old alley cat had ever allowed to cuddle him as if he was a soft toy. The boy, in Mary's opinion, simply had a way with animals. It wasn't just the fact that Chauncey allowed himself to be handled ungracefully (not that Tom, even when he had been a tiny tot and – as all tots were – somewhat clumsy, had ever handled the cat ungracefully) that Mary based her opinion on, but also that butterflies and ladybugs had always seemed inclined to land on him when he reached out to them (holding himself almost unnaturally still as he did) and she could have sworn that she'd seen him cuddling a squirrel in the churchyard on one occasion. However animals, no matter how well he seemed to communicate with them, were not playmates and – with the exception of little Dennis Bishop – the boy was sorely lacking in that regard.

"Tom?" she asked quietly, attempting not to startle the boy.

"Go 'way!" was the sharp reply – or, at least, what would have been a sharp reply if it hadn't been spoken by someone who was also sniffling at the time.

Soon afterward Mary discovered just how difficult it could be for a normal size woman to crawl into the 'cave' Tom and the cat had either found or made for themselves …in a usually _un_used alcove which was almost entirely hidden by a – somewhat – moveable bookcase (which was as high as the, slightly lower than average, ceiling). Mary was decidedly baffled as to how the odd pair had managed to move the bookcase in the first place, since the majority of the books and assorted learning aids it held were distinctly weighty. It was only once she had crawled all the way inside that Tom deemed it necessary to actually look at her.

"They all think I'm insane," he said.

Mary was silent. There really wasn't anything to say.

The orphanage cat nuzzled Tom's head with his own, purring as he did.

"Stop it, Chuck," Tom mumbled, although the rest of his behaviour and attitude seemed to imply that he did not, in fact, mind let alone want the cat to stop at all.

Mary felt useless and decidedly out of place as she watched the odd pair comfort and cuddle each other. It was with great reluctance that she exited the artificial cave and the guilty feeling that ate at her for leaving them nearly made it impossible for her to eat her lunch. Afterward she hurried to the nursery – struck by what she hoped was a good idea and felt was most likely a bad idea for safety reasons – and retrieved the two items from the nursery trick box that were meant for Tom. She honestly had no idea whether being given the ring – which actually had come from Jonathan – and old stick which his mother had left behind would help, but she hoped that trusting him not to do anything …crazy… with the two small items, at his young age, would reassure him that not everyone felt he was …well, wasn't exactly all there.

However, when she returned she found that someone had moved the bookcase so that no adult could fit behind it and into the alcove again. Although she never caught a certain glimpse of them, Mary was positive that there were two pairs of large eyes observing her from behind the bookcase. There was also evidence that she was not the only person to have been there.

…a tray, laden with a meal for one human and meat and milk enough for one cat, had been placed in front of the entrance to the bookcase's hidden alcove; just far enough away that the bookcase would not hit it if it were to move forward.

_Simon,_ Mary thought fondly, smiling at the tray as she did. Then, after a moment's consideration (which included noting a pair of large, extremely dark blue eyes blinking out at her from behind the bookcase), she gently placed the stick and the ring on the tray – she knew Tom would recognise them, since she had shown them to him once before. She then left, assuming – correctly – that Tom would prefer not to have her present, considering the amount of effort he had taken to hide the fact that he was crying in the first place.

Perhaps a half a minute, perhaps a whole one, passed once she had left, before the bookcase lifted itself ever so slightly off the floor and swung outward. A small figure dashed out, picked up the tray and carried it back into the alcove which – although a tight squeeze, no doubt, for two adults, fit one child and a cat quite comfortably.

The bookcase swung slowly closed again – hiding the entire entry way – and the boy began to set out the cat's bowls on the floor nearby …lighting the tiny space with the, lit, old-fashioned paraffin lamp which had been delivered with the tray.

* * *

Reverend Hubert Honeycutt frowned. It was quite late at night and, while he had admittedly only just finished tiding up the church (some local children had apparently decided to make a mess during the day, while he was in the other rooms – he hadn't been able to do anything for the one smashed window other than put a board over it), he knew there had been no lights on in the building when he had locked it.

Nevertheless, he could see – as clear as heaven's light, he thought – the tiny flickering light of a candle in the main church. Then, on the other side of the dark room from the first little light, a second flickering light appeared.

The Reverend frowned again and began making his way back to the main church building.

* * *

The door opened quietly, but the room's main occupant did not turn to see who was on the verge of entering – his attention was focused on lighting the last few candles (all of which were on the alter, surrounding a status of a man with 'angel's wings' and a 'halo' – not a hello – he'd been told many times was called Christ, which confused him because he'd thought that was a bad word and often got shushed for saying it) and that required a lot of attention. He hadn't known, when he started pulling out candles from cupboards, that churches _had _so many candles to light.

The wick of the second last candle burst into flame, drawing a small smile from the dark figure and a soft gasp from the man in the doorway – in the quiet of the night and the almost empty room, the sound echoed loudly.

Tom reached out with a little hand, as if to touch the new flame as it burned gently from the alter, as he knelt thoughtfully a few steps beyond the front-most pews – in the centre, if one looked from side to side, of the isle: at least two arms' lengths too far away to reach the candles lighting the alter.

The church-room glowed with the dim, flickering, light of fifty or more – perhaps closer to a hundred, even – small candles. Tom, in his slightly-oversized coat and orphanage uniform, seemed very small in comparison with the rest of the room.

"Child?" the Reverend breathed, still astounded and more than a little cautious.

Tom didn't look at him; he simply set his sights on the last candle, his hands clasped and resting on his upper legs. "It's not that hard," he said, "once you can speed up the molecules – change the thermal energy." A small, old-fashioned paraffin lamp sat in front of him.

Reverend Honeycutt began approaching the boy slowly, wary and somewhat lost. "How did you learn this?" he breathed, his voice somehow managing not to quaver: although it did betray his bafflement and amazement at the sight.

"Martha taught me," the boy replied simply, continuing to focus on the final candle.

The Reverend frowned as he moved slowly past the pews; it had taken him longer than he liked to admit to associate the Christian name – the _given name_, he corrected himself mentally – with Doctor Elder; orphanage medic and steadfast atheist, who only ever visited the church for the occasional funeral. From what little he had seen – and the stories of the more regular visitors from the orphanage – the woman was sour, vitriolic, logical to a fault and generally so unpleasant in personality that no one wanted to be around her …but he would never have suspected that… Hubert Honeycutt cut of the train of thought abruptly, in favour of asking the obvious question.

"Can… can she also…?" he inquired vaguely, waving a hand at the candles – a motion which went unnoticed as the boy's concentrated gaze remained fixed on the candle.

"No," Tom said, sounding almost regretful yet factual and straightforward; as if the matter was not only of no importance (at least regarding teaching) but also rather silly. "It's only me."

As the Reverend came to stand next to him, and then crouched down so their eyes were level, the boy finally turned to look at him; his cherubic face lit hauntingly by the flickering lights. The Reverend could see many of the little candle-flames reflected in the boy's large, dark eyes – almost like a tiny star-field – and, although Reverend Honeycutt knew that the lighting gave him a similar appearance, he could not quite help but be struck by the halo-like look of the little orphan's hair, as the light from candles behind him surrounded and shone through the tips of his hair.

The boy continued to observe the adult in solemn silence for a long time, before he finally spoke. "The little girl who was buried here in nineteen-oh-one wants to know why she isn't in heaven." The tone was disturbingly even, as if the facts stated were plain and simple.

Hubert Honeycutt's eyes widened. "H-how?" he stuttered out.

Tom, however, seemed to understand what the question was. "She asked me," he said, "a long time ago." Just as seriously, after a pause, he added, "I think she's lonely. I think she's scared of the dead lady who's been following me around." There was another pause before the boy, just as solemnly as before, continued, "She told me once that she'd met others – a little boy who was trampled to death near Vauxhall Station in the eighteen-twenties, another who died of the Black Death: he's still five, a two year old girl in the Thames: she's been looking for her mother in the water for hundreds of years. Rosie says no one ever seemed to see them, but one by one they disappeared."

Although the Reverend wouldn't have seen it even if he had been looking the right direction, Tom saw Rosie nod sadly from on of the pews. Her presence, to Tom's eyes alone, lit up the darkest part of the church-room with a silvery glow. Her feet still swung uselessly just above the floor – as they must have done in life.

"Martha says that once you die you stop existing," Tom told the Reverend quietly. "Mary says that once you die you go to heaven to be with God and the angels if you were good – and you burn in Hell if you were bad …or could do things." Then, for just a moment, the child closed his eyes – when he opened them he looked upward, a smile of childish delight seeming to dance across his lips.

Reverend Honeycutt looked around in open-mouthed awe at the hundred floating candles that lit the room.

Tom allowed the candles to float for a few moments more, then gently dispersed the helium clouds beneath them; allowing them to sink back to their original positions. When their eyes met again, he said seriously, "I don't want to go to Hell."

There was a long silence as the two stared at each other.

"Reverend?" the boy asked solemnly. "If they're supposed to be in Heaven or Hell – or not existing – why can I see them?"

Hubert Honeycutt stared at the boy for a long time; struggling with the child's serious, innocent and oddly simple question. He vaguely wondered, in the back of his mind, whether this incident would have caused him some gray hairs; had he not greyed fully long ago. "What," he finally inquired, somehow defeated, "do you want me to tell you?"

"Tell me that there is a Heaven," Tom replied immediately, as if it really were so simple. "Tell me that we really go to Heaven, that we get wings. Tell me it's true." His words were becoming quicker as he spoke, as a sort of desperation began to seep into his previously calm and even tone. "Tell me that all the people I see suffering – dead or alive – tell me that they'll go there, that we'll all be happy there." Finally, his voice cracked as he finished his – now clearly distraught – appeal, "Tell me Arnie and the others… tell me that they didn't go through all that pain for nothing. Tell me that all the bad things that happen to us... that they aren't all reasonless."

_Arnie,_ the word reverberated in Hubert's mind; shaking him: mind, heart and soul, _oh, God; his little friend who was murdered_. "I don't know what to tell you," he whispered.

"Tell me that there is a Heaven," Tom repeated, almost stubbornly. "You're the Reverend," he added, upset.

Hubert sank down to the floor, so that he was sitting rather than crouching. _Why,_ he wondered desperately, _do I have to have_ this _particular conversation with a six year old?_ After a long pause, he spoke – his voice soft, as if he were unwilling to speak such irreverent words aloud in a house of God – looking directly at the child as he did, "When I chose this path in life I was uncertain of my faith. I hoped that life in the service of the Lord would help me to believe …that I would eventually be able to help others." He broke off sharply, swallowing hard before he continued – quite aware of the hoarse, strangled, quality of his tone and the tears welling in his eyes, "And every night I ask the Lord the same thing; to tell me that there_ is_ a Heaven, that all the suffering in the world isn't for nothing. Yet there are still days – especially on Sundays when I see new orphans among my congregation, looking up at me with lost expressions on their faces: as if they expect me to lead them. Me." He snorted bitterly. "I can't even lead myself."

For a time he was silent, looking at Tom's little face – which showed disturbing understanding of his problems for a child so young, before he shook his head, asking with dark humour, "Are you not a little young to be having dilemma's of faith?"

Tom gave him a long, solemn, look. "I can see ghosts," he said simply.

Hubert Honeycutt nodded several times, almost to himself, before looking up at the alter with an expression to sorrowful, bitter and wry to truly be called a smile and continuing his earlier comment from before he had digressed. "There are still days," he murmured, his voice cracking, "when I wonder what kind of merciful god make innocent children suffer so much because when they've died and gone to Heaven everything will be all right."

"We're not all right," Tom said sharply, his tone forceful and pained. "_**None of us**__ are all right_." He looked up at the Reverend again with a twisted sort of expression on his face. "We're all there because our parents died, or hurt us, or just plain didn't _want_ us. We're not all right …and we're never going to be." There was a momentary pause in which Tom dipped his head, trying to collect his thoughts, before he looked up at the Reverend again. "The others… they think I'm a bit off," he said. "Can anyone go through that and not be …a bit off?" he added rhetorically – it was clear he thought the answer was no.

Silently, the boy picked up the old-fashioned paraffin lamp and stood, his too large second-hand coat making him seem even smaller than he was as it hung around him.

"It's late," Hubert said as the boy reached the door, "I'll walk you back."

Tom shook his head, a tiny smile appearing on his face for just a moment. "Rosie can do that," and, with those words, he slipped out of the church. Almost immediately, the candles began to dim.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter done – especially since it takes place directly after the last one.

**To Shawna:** I'm glad you think so – and I'll try not to. I suppose it should teach me not to bite off more than I can chew. Thank you.

**To LavenderStorm:** The way I see things, if you take the time to review than it would be unfair of me not to reply – I never ask for reviews but I respect (or, perhaps, because of that respect) the initiative taken by those who decide to put in the effort to review. I cannot begin to express how happy I am to hear you say that you think my characters are multi-faceted and real – one of my aims was to make sure that none of my characters were one-sided. To answer your question: Tom was told his mother died giving birth to him – a six year old might not know much about what that entails, but would not immediately recognise someone whose throat was clearly slit (and still bleeding long after their death) as having 'died' in childbirth. To him she's still just a scary-mute-dead lady. I can't answer any of your further comments on the matter without giving away some of my cards, though.

**To Milky0candy:** Considering what sort of fanfics tend to get the most reviews, I can't say I'm surprised by the amount – but I don't mind, to me what is important is the quality, not the quantity, of the reviews. I'm glad you think highly of my effort to be historically accurate and that you liked the fact finders (which you called precisions – if you've only read the one or two I have on this site, it's worth noting that the story has a livejournal account where each chapter has a [somewhat] illustrated fact finder a post after it, of course it's possible you've already been there). Considering how quickly you read the rest, I suppose I ought to apologise for keeping you waiting for so long. I'm also relieved to hear you found some parts spooky – I worked very hard on that.

**To Jen103: **You're quite welcome. Martha has not explained to Tom who the lady is (after all, who would want to tell a six year old that the horrible scary monster is the mummy they'd wanted so badly?) as of this point – whether or not she will, I will not divulge at this time. I'm glad to hear you liked it and hope you've liked this chapter just as much.


	33. Nazis: JanuaryJune, 1933

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Nazis**

Martha groaned as the dark-haired child ploughed into her side like a well aimed javelin.

"I used the new door!" Tom told her, his excitement and pride at having used the secret passage she'd had constructed for him was pointedly evident (in reality it was merely a sliding wall panel in the back of his wardrobe that worked as a door and made a 'tunnel' when the wardrobe had been placed in front of the infirmary-side door – hiding it completely).

"Rosie again?" she inquired, still more than half-asleep and struggling to burrow back into her warm bedding with an overzealous six year old pinning her legs in place.

"I oughtn't have let her walk me home," Tom agreed, as if this made sense.

Martha sat up shortly, suddenly quite entirely awake. "You left the building?" she inquired in a flat, yet dangerous, tone.

Tom nodded.

"I left that lamp downstairs with you because I thought you might decide to spend the night behind that bookcase," the doctor said coldly. "And you're telling me that you went walking about with it; in the middle of the night _to see a dead girl?_"

Tom winced and began squirming his way under her blankets. "I went to see the reverend," he said, "she saw me in the churchyard and followed me into the building."

"After which point you allowed her to walk you home," Martha stated, for clarification's sake.

Tom nodded, although he was not entirely certain where the doctor was taking the conversation.

"An action which encouraged her to try to convince you to 'play' again tonight and subsequently had you sneak through your wardrobe to hide in my bed – without permission – and steal my blankets," the doctor concluded.

Tom winced. "You're warm," he stated, as if that explained everything.

The doctor groaned again and tossed the blankets over his head. "How did you even get into that building?" she asked, although she was trying to get back to sleep.

"I walked in," Tom stated nonchalantly, from underneath the blankets, the facts very obvious in his opinion. "The reverend was in another room and hadn't locked the doors yet."

Martha groaned and buried her face in her pillow once more.

* * *

Twenty-seven days – he'd counted – had passed since Tom had impulsively extended the hand of friendship to Rosie again and the strain was beginning to show. For the past twenty-seven nights he had worried and been forced to flee his room when the overly-attached little dead girl came looking for her friend. When she'd realised he hadn't turned up for church on Sundays again (he'd suddenly realised that the reverend might not have taken too well to what he had seen) it had become worse.

He had dark lines under his eyes and his normally neat hair was sticking up every which way as he struggled to stay awake long enough to eat his porridge. He was so tired, in fact, that he barely even noticed Dennis wander off to find him a cup of tea (Dennis had concluded that adults drank the foul liquid to wake themselves up and that Mrs. Cole seemed awake enough not to need hers).

In fact, he was so taken up by his concentration on the tea, the porridge and trying to stay awake that he almost completely failed to notice the latest row between Mary and Martha at the staff table.

Dennis patted his friend sympathetically on the back – although a small part of him thought Tom was quite funny when he was half asleep and cranky from exhaustion: he would often go off on stranger tangents than usual and suddenly become abrupt and blunt, telling people exactly what he thought of them as he did. Dennis thought his friend had a gift for knowing exactly what to say to hurt – or heal – people and that it was an awful lot of fun watching the children who so loved to taunt them become incoherent and red-faced whenever Tom replied to them with a cutting observation that he normally would have been too considerate to blurt out. When he was of the opinion that his friend had been suitably comforted, Dennis turned his attention back to the row at the adults' breakfast table.

"-absolutely ridiculous!" Mary was saying – or, rather, shouting.

"He is _dangerous!_" Martha yelled in response, slamming her partially folded newspaper emphatically down against the table at the last word.

"_You're insane_!" Mary replied in kind. "You're looking _to start_ a war!"

Martha, if anything, was further enraged by the comment. "And you would just _open your bloody eyes_ and look around you, you'd see that war could still be prevented if you blind fools _would only act NOW_!"

It was rather like a very odd tennis match.

"IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN, YOU–" Mary screamed back at her, but she never got to finish that sentence.

_"ENOUGH!"_ Eleanor roared, standing swiftly and shoving her hands out between the fighting women – who had been standing on either side of her, by the table. "Enough, both of you!" she repeated. "You have been fighting like children for a month now and I'm _bloody sick of it_."

The matron took a step backward, so that she could properly face both of the women – thus placing them in front of her – and was momentarily grateful that her chair had moved so far back when she had abruptly stood. Purposefully, she glowered at the two women as disapprovingly as she could.

"What is the _matter with you two?"_ she asked, both exasperatedly and rhetorically. "Before this year started neither of you would ever have considered screaming at each other – especially not in front of the children – but ever since Samantha died it's been as if you two can't even look at each other without _someone _screaming."

Mrs. Cole looked between the two women again, a sort of cold fury shining clearly from her eyes. "This ends now," she told them in a stern, decisive tone. "I, quite frankly, do not _care_ whether you hate each other or whether you kill each other now that Samantha is no longer around to stand between you – but I do not want to hear about it."

She took a deep breath, pausing to look between the two angry, shocked women. "I am well aware that everyone handles grief differently," she said, "but I will not stand for it interrupting everyone else's lives."

"But she isn't grieving!" Mary cut in, no longer able to hold her peace. "She doesn't care at all!"

"I did that _eight years ago,"_ Martha sneered at her, "when I diagnosed her with emphysema, which – I'll thank you to recall – is incurable _and f_a_t_a_l_."

"I believe I just told both of you to hold your tongues," Mrs. Cole said coldly. She then turned to Mary and pointed her finger almost accusingly at her. "_You_," Eleanor said sharply, "it is none of your business whether she grieves or not. Nor is it your place to attack her for it. So don't do it again. Is that clear?"

Mary turned her head away, shaking slightly with barely suppressed anger.

"Is that clear?" the matron repeated, colder and more determinedly.

Mary nodded shakily.

"Good," Mrs. Cole said shortly. "Get out."

Mary's head jerked up as she stared at her colleague in shock.

"If you are going to behave like a child, I will treat you like one," Eleanor told her coldly. "Go to your room and think about your behaviour – I don't want to see you again until you have."

Mary opened her mouth, closed her mouth and then turned and fled the room.

"And as for _you_," the matron continued, rounding on the doctor. "I don't expect you to be repentant – it would be pointless to hope for – and your politics are your own."

The doctor raised an eyebrow and nodded slightly, composed and calm again.

"I know you don't think highly of the education given to we who didn't have the money for expensive schools and private tutors," Mrs. Cole continued, holding her finger directly in front of the unimpressed doctor's face, "but I have had quiet enough of you sneering down your nose at how 'blind' and 'uneducated' we are. If you seriously want to believe that this Mister Hitler is going to _ignore_ the _Treaty of Versailles_ if he is made Chancellor or whatever it is you are so afraid of: then go ahead. Prepare for a war that isn't coming – but I don't want to hear about it. Clear?"

"The treaty bankrupted Germany," Doctor Elder replied calmly, albeit condescendingly. "Only a fool refuses to acknowledge what the logical results of an action will be."

There was murmuring from the rest of the staff at the table – all of which were in some way negatively regarding Martha and her views.

"However," the doctor continued before the matron could, "as you would evidently prefer to remain blissfully oblivious for as long as possible, I shall not press the issue." Then, with a disgustingly imperious nod, she turned and began to walk toward the door.

"Stupid woman," Harold Cole muttered. His tone became mocking as he continued, "'Hitler's dangerous, Stalin's dangerous, Mussolini's dangerous', bah. She's as nutty, that one. Probably even thinks that Ghandi bloke is dangerous."

Martha paused by the door. "Mister Ghandi was a highly respectable solicitor with a good reputation and a bright future before he decided to make a fool of himself by running around playing holy-man," she stated, sneering slightly at the thought, "but his preaching is pacifistic."

Tom fell asleep in his porridge.

* * *

It wasn't until the twenty-eighth of February that Hubert Honeycutt became certain enough to take a – really to take any – course of action. In many ways, it could be considered an unusually long time; except if one considered that he only usually saw the Vauxhall Road orphans once a week and that the little Riddle boy had only failed to turn up for church eight times.

After the fourth time, the reverend had attempted to make a discrete inquiry about the boy, but had instead been treated to a fifteen minute rant – from sweet Miss Mary Bonner of all people – about how the doctor had 'objected in the strongest terms' to the boy attending church while he was still having difficulty separating fantasy from reality. Hubert Honeycutt, who knew perfectly well what the boy could do and that the doctor was quite aware of it, had to wonder why the doctor would choose to undertake such a blatantly obvious deception. It was for that reason that he found himself hobbling up to the front door of the orphanage on a Monday afternoon and knocking on it.

Eleanor Cole – the new matron, as Hubert reminded himself – opened the door after a few minutes, her shock at seeing him as evident in her face as it was in her lack of a verbal response.

"I am terribly sorry to bother you, my dear," the reverend said, "but while I was out to obtain some groceries I had the misfortune to do in my ankle rather badly. As I was reasonably nearby, I'd hoped your doctor would be willing to take a look at it – I'm afraid I've been having a bit of difficulty walking on it."

Mrs. Cole opened the door without further delay and immediately helped him – step by painful step – into the staff room and, thence, into a comfortable chair. It was only once he was seated that she spoke. "It's not a bother, Reverend," and – with that – she hurried out of the room to retrieve the irksome medical professional.

It was, in fact, with some trepidation that Hubert Honeycutt awaited the doctor – not only was he about to call her on something that she had made an effort to conceal, but he had very little idea of what sort of a woman she was: up until that point he had only ever seen her at a wedding and the occasional funeral.

He made several attempts to start a conversation while she examined his ankle, however was met every time with stony silence.

When she had finished her examination, she rocked back on her haunches and – somehow maintaining her dignity and air of elegance as she did – gave him a shrewd look. Then she raised an eyebrow.

The reverend swallowed.

"I thought your precious book had some rather specific things to say about _lying_," she stated.

"Lying is certainly not, ahem, acceptable, of course," he replied, struggling to maintain coherency under the metaphorical weight of her piercing and unpleasant gaze. "However, as a man of God I can assure you that the good book never took the time to mention any, erm, outright disapproval of, ah, perhaps purposefully injuring one's ankle to further one's purposes?"

The look the doctor wore told him quite clearly that she was not impressed. The sharp, pain-causing, tug she gave the bandage (which she had been wrapping his ankle in) was unnecessary emphasis.

Reverend Honeycutt winced. "I am worried about the boy," he admitted.

"He is not your concern," Doctor Elder replied archly.

"Isn't he?" the reverend asked, trying not to squeak as he did – for the doctor seemed to be taking very little care as she wrapped his ankle.

"Oh, I see," the doctor drawled, the icy quality of her tone causing a shiver to run through her patient as she spoke mockingly. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, is that it?"

The reverend looked down at her in surprise. "That's not, ah, exactly what I–"

Doctor Elder dropped his bandaged foot sharply, and gracefully stood. "You're done here," she told him coldly.

* * *

"Why don't you come to church and visit me anymore?" Rosie demanded, inanely attempting to tower over his bed.

Tom blinked up at her. He vaguely recalled that it was Sunday morning, that Martha had allowed him to sleep past breakfast because he had used his abilities against one of the other orphans at dinner the previous night and that he really should not have been awake at all. David had deserved it, though, since he had never spoken to Tom, except one time in class, and yet had been telling the other children at dinner about how insane 'the Riddle boy' was. Really, he'd looked much better with a fork driven into his backside – even if Martha hadn't appreciated having to take it out.

"Not allow'd play wi' de' girlsss," he replied sleepily.

"You don't play with anyone else, either," Rosie said primly. "I hear them talking every Sunday, after church."

Tom opened his eyes again – not entirely certain when he had closed them – and gave her an annoyed look; he wasn't entirely sure when she had stopped seeming so scary to him (at least, in the light of day) especially since the lady-ghost was still terrifying for both of them.

"Even Dennis doesn't play with you as much as he used to," she continued, pushing for a response. "Some of the older one's think you're possessed by the devil, they say you're the one who set the nursery on fire. _That's_ why everyone avoids you in the corridors. _That's _why only the doctor ever really talks to you." Then, very seriously, with a grave expression on her face, she added, "I'm not sure I should be talking to you. I've been going to church again since you stopped coming by and the reverend says we shouldn't suffer witches to live. It's in the bible."

Tom blinked at her – having long since decided that he was not awake enough for the conversation yet – and vaguely mumbled, "If we can't suffer witches, can we enjoy them instead?"

"If you had said that when you were sixteen, instead of six," a dry voice interjected, "I would be worried."

Both six year olds jerked around to look at the tall wardrobe.

Doctor Martha Elder was sitting, quite calmly, in the wardrobe – evidently she had pushed open the doors while they had been talking and neither child had noticed – with her legs tucked neatly in by her side, the best position to keep the lines she had drawn on the backs of her legs from smudging.

After a few moments, Rosie stomped one of her dainty little feet and stormed out of the room.

"Eleanor is still unhappy about the fork incident," the doctor said casually, as if it was perfectly normal for her to spend her Sunday mornings sitting in someone else's wardrobe; eavesdropping.

Tom said nothing, still uncertain how to react to the doctor sitting in his wardrobe as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on, although he couldn't quite keep a faint smile from flickering over his face at the mention of how he had used his abilities to stab the ten year old bully in the arse with the metal cutlery.

After a few moments of silence from him, the doctor opened the correspondence that had arrived for her not much earlier in the day and, to Tom's surprise, suddenly let out a hiss of frustration.

Tom blinked at her. "Are you well?" he asked, baffled by the unusual display of emotion. Even more to his surprise, she shook her head in response.

"No," Martha said. "No, I'm not."

Tom, baffled, clambered out of bed and joined his caretaker in the wardrobe.

"This," Martha explained, waving the paper in a sharp swish-like movement, "is a message from my Oma – my grandmother – she says that my Tante Hava and her husband – Oom Ernst – are moving to Bergen op Zoom, but that my eldest two cousins (Cokkie and Griet) have elected to stay in Berlin, in spite of the growing anti-Semitic sentiment there."

The look on Tom's face made it perfectly clear that – as far as he was concerned – she might as well have been speaking entirely in Dutch. He turned his head sideways to give her a very pointed look across his shoulder, for they were sitting next to each other, and in a dry tone stated, "I'm _six_."

"Anti-Semitic means against or opposed to those who are Jewish – be that Jewish religiously or, like in my family, by race alone," Martha replied blandly, making sure to keep the explanation as simple as possible. "I inherited my father's very English appearance, but my cousins _look_ Jewish. The German government had an election today. Oma is convinced the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei is going to gain in popularity." Suddenly the doctor laughed – the sound was faint and unpleasant. "Oma wants Cokkie and Griet back in Holland where it's safe, she says, but that all of her friends and neighbours think she's worrying about nothing: that sounds familiar enough."

Tom stared at her for a few moments, before finally speaking. "What's a Natisosilipstick deootshe arbi-something and what do you mean 'look Jewish'? Are they blue or something?"

The doctor blinked at him for a moment. "Why would they be _blue?_"

Tom shrugged. "Some people are black," he pointed out, "and I heard the older orphans talking about red indi-people at one point."

"The Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei is usually called the Nazi party by English speakers," Martha finally replied. "It's a political party that is very popular in Germany at the moment, but their policies lean strongly toward anti-Semitism."

"A ...party?" Tom asked.

Martha barely restrained the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose as she replied, "The Tories are a political party here, for example." There was a pause. "As for your other question ...I shall retrieve some photographs of my family – although I do not think the differences are particularly visible."

Less than ten minutes later, Tom found himself staring at a photograph of the doctor, her cousins and a young boy, in nineteen-twenty. "Maaartje, Cookie, Greet and See-cell," he read, struggling with the odd names jotted down in the bottom corner of the image. Then, after a moment of quietly contemplating the photograph, he stated, "I like your nose better. Who is See-cell?"

Martha blinked. "Thank you," she replied, somewhat flummoxed by his comment. "Cecil is my brother – he is ten years my junior." Under her breath, she added bitterly, "The replacement."

Tom frowned at her vaguely, thinking of the name sewn onto the belly of the toy monkey which sat proudly on his bed, next to his pillow, but quickly dismissed it in favour of what he considered to be the more important inquiry. "So the Nazis," he said slowly, the sentence somehow becoming a question along the way, "don't like people ...who have big noses?"

At that point, Martha really did pinch the bridge of her nose. "You are," she replied, "as you say, six. I seriously doubt that continental politics is of any concern for you at the moment. Let us turn to more appropriate matters. You have already proven that your aim with _flying forks_ is quite excellent, but I would like to see how well you can handle the photographs – since they are more delicate and you must manage the pressure you put on them more carefully."

Tom, however, was staring at her with a solemn, troubled, expression. "Tha," he asked, in a strange, worried tone, "they aren't ...they aren't right, are they?"

Very seriously, the doctor replied, "Not unless you believe I am a lower life form."

* * *

It was on Thursday, the twenty-third of March, that Helen Hackett returned to the orphanage and her position as a teacher. Tom was not particularly concerned, since he was in Mister Stone's class, but many of the older girls grumbled that it was the end of Lucy Blackwood acting as substitute and that their lessons would go back to being boring now that Hackett was back in the classroom... the majority of the older boys, one the other hand, were of the opinion that they would be too busy leering to notice. Tom hadn't been exactly sure what that meant, but after Miss Hackett had greeted him by calling him 'Thomas, dear' (he _knew _he didn't have an 'h' an 'a' or an 's' in his name, even if he did sometimes have trouble spelling other things!) and pinching his cheek, he had decided he was firmly on the girls' side of the argument – something which had only served to alienate him from the other boys in the orphanage even more, although many of the older girls had apparently decided that it made him 'cute' and one had gone so far as to dub him their new mascot (whatever _that_ was).

When he had attempted to explain all of this to Dennis, the younger boy had stared at him as if he had grown a second head for a time before shaking his own head and allowing himself to be called away to play with the other boys their age.

Rosie, on the other hand, had been sitting in the gate listening and made a sort of happy noise before attempting to hug Tom. That might have been fine if Tom hadn't had objections to the idea of being hugged by a cold, dead girl who lacked a significant portion of her face. His reaction to her move to hug him (which, in itself, had been rather like a lunge) had been to move a very large amount of molecules very, very fast. It was the same basic principle that he had been working on with Martha, in the infirmary, on the smaller scale, but the gust of wind he used to push her away was so strong that it spooked one of the few horses that still drew carriages along the streets, knocked three passerby's hats off and caused a small child outside the gates to stumble into the street and very narrowly avoid being hit by an automobile. The girl's scream of terror was still ringing in his ears after the orphans' lunch and play break-hour was over and they began to make their way back inside.

Mrs. Cole and Doctor Elder had stood by the door – apparently doing a headcount to make sure none of the children had decided to go wandering around the streets of London unaccompanied and without permission – and both of them, pale faced and stern, had frowned at him as he moved to enter.

Very quietly, he told them, "It wasn't her I meant to push."

As he moved away from the door, he faintly heard Mrs. Cole – who indubitably had turned to her companion – ask, "Rosie again?"

However he was too far away to hear Martha reply, in kind, with a soft and discomforting, "I hope so."

* * *

Slightly over a month after the incident with the girl and the automobile (which Mrs. Cole had reluctantly accepted was an accident, although she had still glared at him after she had given him a lecture about thinking before acting) Tom had begun practising bending the path of light with Martha and while he was supposed to be listening to Mr. Stone, since he often found the repetitive nature of his classes very boring.

The poor teacher really hadn't understood why the sunlight was shining right into his eyes no matter where in the room he stood, but the other students had giggled quite a bit at the faces the man made, so Tom figured it was all in good fun.

The difficulty with bending light, as Tom and the doctor had quickly realised, was that one not only had to think very hard about the angles but that one also had to consider whether changing the course of the light that moved toward an object or that of the light which bounced off it was the more appropriate action. The former course of action, it turned out, was the easier one and – after his initial success with changing the direction of the sunlight entering the infirmary and sending light into his teacher's eyes, Tom had no more luck with light.

That night, before he went to bed, Tom discussed the problem with Martha and they decided to focus once again on altering the molecular structure of things instead – although Martha had stated that it might be worthwhile to continue to practise changing the course of light on occasion. Yet as far as he could tell photons, apparently, didn't agree with him.

* * *

It was on a Friday, a month after they had given up on changing the path of photons, that Tom – to Martha's amusement – gave the matron and the children, who had taken to mocking him, their next shock ...quite literally, in fact. After working with the manipulation of basic molecules for so long, it had been relatively easy (with Martha's guidance) to start playing around with passing electrons from atom to atom to change the charge – that is, of course, after Martha had succeeded in explaining the science to him.

Two weeks after they had begun working on electrical energy, Tom had managed to make the doctor's hair stand up around her head with static electricity and a single touch. Three weeks after they had begun, he successfully altered the electrical potential in the infirmary-side doorknob behind his wardrobe so that it had given off a slight shock when it was touched. Martha, who had suggested the activity, had been quite pleased by it – even though it had been her fingers that absorbed the shock. The week after that, on the Friday, Tom managed to make an electrical charge in the metal cutlery Chester Bullock was eating his dinner with, transfer to the boy himself. The older boy had left the room, after the meal finished, with his hair still apparently reaching for the ceiling – he also swore that he had not purposefully elbowed Tom in the face as the orphans moved out of the dining hall.

Of course, as amusing as that had been, it had led to where Tom was at the point he had begun reminiscing ...sitting in Mrs. Cole's office room – which used to be Mrs. Samantha's – and sulking.

"Tom," the matron said sternly.

Tom continued to swing his legs, enjoying the sight (although not so much the feeling) of the little bolts of electricity zipping from one trouser leg to the other whenever his legs crossed paths.

"This has got to stop, young man," Mrs. Cole continued.

There was a – somehow sullen sounding – pause, then Tom spoke, not looking at her as he did. "Chester says I belong in an asylum." Then he looked sharply up at the matron and, in a pointed and exasperated tone, cried, "He's _bigger_ than me!"

Mrs. Cole frowned at him, her lips pursing minutely for a moment. "Then," she said sternly, "be the better man about it and turn the other cheek."

Ever logical, Tom bluntly replied, "Then I'll have two bruises."

* * *

The next time there was an incident in the dining hall it was not, in fact, Tom's fault. However, Tom was fairly certain that it had something to do with what Martha had told him months earlier about Nazzy people and Semi-people. It certainly had something to do with someone from Germ-many, who – if he understood the hushed part of the row between Martha and Mrs. Cole correctly – had been at some strange adult thing in London called an Economic Conference. If he hadn't been sitting so close to the staff table (a new rule of the matron's – although no one else knew about it – because she wanted to make sure he didn't 'try anything') he wouldn't have been able to hear any of the conversation.

The very last part of it, however, the entire population of the orphanage heard. Over breakfast that Tuesday, which happened to be the thirteenth of June, and after a heated discussion in hushed – but steadily rising – tones Martha had yelled for the first time since she and Mary had been scolded by the matron.

Martha had slammed her newspaper down on the table, standing as she did. "It's_ happening_, Cole," the doctor exclaimed, months of bottled up frustration, irritation and concern audible in the nearly screamed and somehow imploring sentences. "Can't you accept that something is _actually happening_, Cole?"

* * *

About a week later Martha showed the matron the international section of her newspaper with a sneer, but otherwise she held her peace. Tom, however, didn't notice: he was too busy confusing Samuel, Chester and their friends by turning the electrical lamp at 'their' end of the dining hall on and off.

Tom didn't know why the matron didn't like him – as far as he could tell, she never had – but since he was facing away from Sammy's little group, he figured it couldn't hurt to do it …as long as the matron couldn't prove it was him, after all.

* * *

_**A/N:**_

**To LavenderStorm:** I'm glad to hear you liked the scene between Tom and the reverend – I worked very hard on it. As I understand it Christianity only 'allows' for the possibility of floating candles and ghosts when the person is either possessed or working for evil. As for the exorcism idea? I've seen it as the staple of so many badly done Tom's youth fics that I'm avoiding it – especially since Mrs. Cole would have to okay such a thing and in canon she …just doesn't seem the type.

**To SakuraCa:** Erm, yes I suppose so. At the moment (for example in Rotten) he's still strictly practising retributive justice.

**To Jen103:** I'm glad to hear it. I was quite pleased when you picked up on those two factors – I do hope you find the answers in this chapter satisfactory.

**To Anonymous:** Um, thank you. I hope the waiting hasn't been too impossible for you.

**To Megii of Mysteri OusStranger:** Well, that's ...quite the complement. As someone who puts a great deal of emphasis (personally) on symbolism and its counterparts, I'm thrilled to hear that you picked up on it. I'm also pretty sure no one's ever complimented my replies to reviews before, for which I really must thank you – although I'm somewhat baffled as to how. If you ever do feel inclined to give some, I will be delighted by constructive criticism – especially since it is clear from this review alone that you would put serious thought into it. I hope my story continues to be as pleasing to you the rest of the way.

**To Basilisk's Fang:** I'm sorry that there is so much discrepancy between which chapter you wrote the review for and where you will find the reply. On a technical note, since the site couldn't handle the size of Fanfic Groupie's review it was cut into five parts – making that only forty-five reviews, but I prefer have a small number of quality reviews. Nevertheless, your indignation on the behalf of review numbers makes me feel like giving you a hug and thanking you, so: thank you.

**To Laurie Jupiter:** Two words: thank you.

In a lot of ways it was the rarity of this sort of fic that drove me to write it – historical inaccuracies are a major pet peeve of mine, especially since I'm aiming to write historical fiction professionally – and I'm glad to know you appreciate it. I'm also pleased to know that my warning about offensive material was noted and understood and that the careful use of era appropriate racism was appreciated – especially in regard to Martha, who I've often worried was too likeable. It's also good to know I'm not the only one who has considered what a major effect the political situation of his childhood might have had on him.

I appreciate that you like my portrayal of Tom so far – and, again, am glad to find someone else who understands that he became, as you put it, a smooth-talking psychopathic person over time. You've probably noticed that he's started using more retributive, and violent, justice in this chapter. As for how what you perceive as a well adjusted child is going to turn out the way he did? I wrote a very long, in depth reply to a similar inquiry at the end of chapter twenty-nine (in reply to Fanfic Groupie's marvellous critique) and I really don't think I can explain myself better here than I did there, but I will touch on a few points other than those that you specifically raised. The majority of information we canonically get about Tom Riddle's youth comes in book six and was screened by Professor Dumbledore before we saw it: he only showed Harry specific events in the life of Tom (who was the enemy: had these been psychology lessons we indubitably would have seen more and different sides of the story) and – on top of that – the majority of the information Dumbledore obtained at the orphanage came from a woman he knew next to nothing about, who had been given a spelled piece of paper to make her stop asking such sharp and cautious questions and who had consumed copious amounts of gin. Outside of fiction, a drunk source of information is usually considered to be an unreliable source of information. Moreover, she openly admits that she has no proof: only strongly voiced suspicions. By the age of eleven – actually he was closer to twelve – we see Tom has become a highly suspicious, emotionally volatile boy with seemingly absurd fears for normal children (that Dumbledore is from a mental asylum). It is never actually stated in canon that the other orphans avoided him (Mrs. Cole said that he "scares the other children" – but we don't know how biased that statement, or how accurate that statement, actually was), let alone because of magical outbursts. There is also nothing stating that a disturbing child cannot be an active one and – as I think was made clearer in this chapter – for all that Tom is seeking company, he only seeks it from and only gets it from: Dennis (who spends less and less time with him), Rosie (who is dead) and Martha (who is by no means an appropriate or normal playmate, let alone a particularly nice or friendly person). His positive social interactions are already limited to three people – which, for anyone who seeks attention the way Tom does, just plain isn't healthy. There are also a bit over five more years for him to take a darker turn and – as I go into detail in for Fanfic Groupie (if you are interested) – I don't think he was completely guilty or completely cracked up yet when we see him at eleven. As you say, no doubt an element of the problem was added when he began attending Hogwarts. You mentioned that J.K. Rowling not including much of the political environment at the time as being an issue for you – because you feel it would have had a major impact on him – and I have to say that a lot of the basis of this story is the same view. I've done some pretty extensive searching of canon and I cannot find a single spell, curse, potion or anything that could do the same amount of damage as the Blitz or the atomic bomb. Most wizards seem to have a very antiquated understanding of muggles – even the muggleborns, because of how quickly our technology develops (especially in comparison to that of wizards) – and Tom, who is about thirteen during the Blitz, would not have been able to match up with the general view of muggles as being only able to harm themselves. I seriously doubt that even the strongest of magical shielding could withstand an A-bomb, no matter how much more dangerous a wizard might be on a one-to-one basis.

Once again, I'm really glad (I really need to find another word for this) that you have enjoyed the story so far and that you appreciate my efforts regarding history and canon. I hope you continue to find it as pleasing.


	34. Family and Friends: July 22nd, 1933

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** Due to the potential for this one thing to be misinterpreted, I felt the need to give you all a tiny bit of historical data first – although I am aware this does give you a hint of what is to come. Some of you may find the lack of reaction by one character to the mention of a German concentration camp to be disturbing, but there is very good reason for this: even up to 1936 (three years thence) Hitler's propaganda worked so well that even _the King of England_ just thought that the problems in Europe were about a bunch of Jews and the like making trouble and that Hitler would sort it all out. _Nobody knew_ about the concentration camps at that point – the only character in the story who is aware of this knows because the news has reached her through her Jewish relatives (most of whom are) fleeing from Germany, but (unlike email) snail mail takes time and she has most likely _just_ gotten the news.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Family and Friends**

Until lunch the outing to Stonehenge had been uneventful – except, of course, it the expected way. Tom had been enjoying it immensely. Dennis had been enjoying it slightly less, but the five year old had long since accepted that his six and a half year old friend was (as all older children were) quite strange and inexplicable and therefore allowed himself to be dragged all around the area by Tom in a fruitless search for snakes. The older boy's enthusiasm was somewhat infectious and when Tom grinned wildly at his friend, his dark eyes twinkling with delight at their last 'adventure' – even though they had just been called back to eat – Dennis couldn't quite keep the grin off his own face. Even the stern looks directed at the boys by the staff – barring Dr. Elder, who received similar disapproving glances because she had let her charges wander off and return somewhat dishevelled – and little Amy Benson's decision to squeal giddily as she tried to pull Dennis away to sit with her were not enough to quell the boys' cheery mood.

On the other hand, Samuel Chase and Chester Bullock knocking Tom over on purpose and stealing the last of his lunch – the small bunch of grapes Martha had brought for him –before running off, with Tom stubbornly chasing after the faster boys to rescue his fruit, was more than sufficient to ruin both their moods. Dennis glanced momentarily at the doctor (who had been pulled away a mere moment before by Mr. Hughes, the cook, and had been too busy replying angrily to the other adult to notice) then turned and, with a shrug at the adults' behaviour, ran after Tom. Adults weren't very intelligent, after all, so he obviously couldn't rely on them to solve the problem.

After five minutes of running – as the final member of the rather odd, impromptu procession – Dennis came to a sudden stop. He did not do so because he had caught up with Tom, let alone those Tom was pursuing, but because he spotted his friend – in the distance – stumble and fall, only to have a large black bird land by him. It was the combination of shock and concern – as, even from a distance, the big black bird looked frightening – that caused Dennis to freeze in his tracks.

* * *

Tom wrinkled his nose as he attempted to spit out the dirt that had somehow managed to make its way into his mouth when he hit the ground. Before he could raise himself off the ground, however, he froze: directly in front of him was a pair of dark feet with dangerous looking talons.

After a few moments of Tom staying perfectly still, out of fear, the large bird leaned down and looked Tom dark eye to dark eye. Tom paled significantly, but due to the dust covering his little face it was practically invisible. The bird gazed at him with its curious eyes and tilted its – formidably beaked – head.

"oo's this, then?" inquired the bird.

"Nobody!" squeaked the boy, still gazing at the awfully large beak.

"Naughty boy," replied the crow, as if to say that Tom's answer wasn't good enough.

The boy was starting to get the distinct impression that the bird had learned its English by listening to the common phrases in human conversations. "I am not!" he cried, nevertheless. "They're the bad ones!" Tom continued, pointing with one hand in the direction Samuel and Chester had run with his food. "They stole my grapes!"

The crow turned its head to look in the direction he had pointed. "One for sorrow, two for luck," it cawed thoughtfully.

"That's for magpies," Tom mentioned mildly.

The bird seemed to shrug, if such a thing was possible, and with a few flaps of its large, dark wings it took to the air. As Tom stood and brushed the dirt off his clothes as best he could, he craned his neck upward and stared as the crow soared above – and became smaller in the distance.

"I know your kind aren't as smart as us," a pleasant, albeit confused, sounding boy's voice came from behind him, "but surely you've seen birds before?"

Tom spun around, startled. The boy standing directly behind him was like nothing he had ever seen before – where all the boys Tom had ever seen had short hair (as was only proper for the male sex …and occasionally Martha, although Tom didn't really understand why that was), the strange apparition's hair hung past his shoulders and tumbled over his loose-fitting dress …a dress that was bundled together at the waist only by the vivid sash the boy had tied around that point (presumably to hold up his, wooden, toy sword)… and he wore an eye-patch over his left eye. As Tom continued his – rather quick – assessment of the other child, he noted that the pale stranger wore expensive looking boots (with heels, no less, which Tom had never seen on a _boy _before) and had a gnarled old broom held in his right hand.

Tom looked the blond in the eyes, which was made easier by the fact that they were almost exactly the same height while the stranger wore his heeled boots, and spoke without thinking. "Are you a Nazi?"

To Tom it had made perfect sense – Martha had said Nazis thought they were better than other kinds of people (the boy had talked about 'Your kind', after all) and liked to be blond – but to the strange boy it was clearly baffling; for he scrunched up his small nose and replied, "I'm a pirate!"

Tom, deciding that attempting to explain that he didn't play fancy dress games, stretched out a hand. "Tom," he said, by way of introduction. "I've only seen really large birds in baby books. I've never seen them in London."

The amateur pirate tilted his aristocratic little head, as if Tom had given him too much information to digest all at once, then grabbed the outstretched hand and shook it heartily. "I be Cap'n Brax, me hearty!" the boy announced cheerfully. "You sail from London, you scurvy dog?"

Tom, taking the bizarre phrasing in stride, replied, "Yes, I'm from London." Then, after a brief pause in which he tried to put his question into acceptably pirate-like terms, he asked, "Which, erm, port do you put into…?"

The blond laughed in delight. "The sea be me home!" he cried enthusiastically. Then, momentarily dropping the game, he added in a far more serious tone as he pointed to his right, "My main port be the manor house yonder."

Tom, who had not seen any such house, turned to look and then turned back to his companion in bafflement.

"It's too far to be seen from here," the blond told him, almost apologetically. After a moment, however, he brightened and shook his gnarled cleaning appliance. "You should come with me! Tis visible from the crow's nest an' I need a first mate!"

Suddenly, a shrill – irritated – voice pierced the air from quite a distance. "Abraxas! ABRAXAS!"

Both boys turned their heads to identify the location of the, for lack of a better term, speaker. There was a woman – as pale and blond as the mysterious boy – in the distance, from the direction of the strange boy's home, storming toward them in what could not possibly be mistaken for anything but a very bad mood.

"ABRAXAS MALFOY! YOU COME BACK HERE THIS VERY MINUTE, YOUNG MAN!" the woman screeched in the distance, the rage of an irked and overworked mother clear in her tone.

The two boys turned to each other, wide eyed, and in the silent understanding that – although _Tom _had actually done nothing wrong – they would both be in very big trouble if they were caught.

"Abandon ship?" Tom suggested.

"Aye, me hearty," Brax agreed.

Not a moment later they were both running – Brax in the opposite direction from his home, Tom in the direction whence he had originally come. Along the way, Tom nearly crashed into Dennis, but instead of stopping to apologise he merely grabbed the other boy's hand and began to drag him along as fast as possible. Dennis, to his credit, didn't try to stop and ask what was going on, and instead merely ran by his friend's side.

By the time Tom and Dennis came upon the site where the orphanage picnic had been set up, they were both dusty and out of breath – neither of them were prepared for the sight that greeted them as they dashed between the great pillars of Stonehenge.

The picnic site was in chaos. The majority of the children were backed up by the path – most clutching their things as if terrified they would be stolen – while the staff struggled to pack their things up, collect the remaining children and see off the invaders: although Chester Bullock and Samuel Chase had clearly made it back (with Tom's grapes) but had apparently returned under attack …for each boy was running across the grass, desperately trying to avoid the four crows dive-bombing them.

Wide-eyed, Dennis ducked behind one of the great pillars – leaving Tom standing alone and in view, somewhat higher up than the rest of the orphans. In spite of the constant attack of beaks and talons, Samuel skidded to a halt when he caught sight of Tom standing there, watching him in undisguised merriment.

"One for sorrow," Tom said in a melodic and lyrical – but not quite sing-song – tone, reciting the old nursery rhyme. "Two for luck."

As if they had an innate sense of the dramatic, the four crows paused in their attacks; instead opting to fly around their targets, just out of striking distance.

"Three for a wedding," Tom continued, now with the almost complete attention of Samuel and Chester. "Four for death."

Chester gasped slightly at that point and the grapes, which he had been clutching by their main stem, fell from his hand. Before they could hit the ground, however, one of the circling crows snatched them out of the air.

"Five for silver, six for gold," Tom continued, his voice growing ever slightly more sing-song in nature.

With its prize in its talons, the lead crow took another turn around the shaking pair of bullies – with the other three following behind it.

"Seven for a secret," Tom continued, a coy and somewhat mocking smile curling across his lips. "Not to be told."

The four black birds abandoned their circling in favour of flying up to the pillars between which Tom was standing.

"Eight for heaven," Tom recited, his voice growing louder with each line.

He was only vaguely aware of the soft sound of the four birds landing – in pairs – atop the pillars on either side of him, facing his audience just as he was.

"Nine for hell," Tom said, extending his arms and his hands – palm up – to both sides.

The lead crow, whom had landed on his left, dropped the bunch of grapes into the outstretched hand. Tom's thin little fingers immediately closed around it.

"And ten for the d'l's own sell!" Tom exclaimed, his voice reaching a crescendo on the last line.

Then, quite suddenly ceasing to portray such a dramatic air – and as if struck by a sudden, baffling, thought – the six and a half year old scrunched up his nose and tilted his head to the side. "Are we leaving?" he asked; his confusion far more obvious than the slight petulance and disappointment in his tone.

From behind the crowd of children, Martha raised an eyebrow and inclined her head.

"Oh," Tom said. Then he looked up, tilting his head ridiculously far back to try and look at the four crows, and added, "Thank you!"

"Oo's a good boy, then?" the crow replied – although the meaning was most likely more along the lines of 'you're welcome'.

Mary Bonner screamed. Startled by this, the four crows took flight and scattered.

Tom spun around to watch them fly off, calling as they did, "Wait! Come back! I was going to share my grapes with you!" As it became clear the birds had no intention of returning, his shoulders slumped and – with a frown of dejection and his lips parted somewhat, between comments, in an expression somewhere between abandonment and confusion – he mumbled, pitifully, "I was going to share my grapes."

From his safe hiding spot behind the pillar, Dennis cautiously reached out and patted his friend on the head.

* * *

"He made them talk," Mrs. Cole emphasised as the train back to Vauxhall rattled along.

Doctor Elder – who was standing with her: just outside the compartment which held not only Samuel and Chester, but Dennis and Tom as well – shook her head. "All crows can talk, and theft of property is perfectly in the nature of crows – especially _Carrion Crows_," she replied, putting emphasis on the name of the birds.

A glance into the compartment window revealed that Tom was still sitting opposite the pair of bandaged and sprained bullies, staring coolly at them and idly tossing the bunch of grapes up and down in one hand. Upon seeing this, both women sighed.

"How are they?" the matron asked.

"Shaken," the doctor replied. "But their wounds are superficial."

"I know he didn't start it, today," Eleanor Cole said regretfully, and with another sigh, "but sometimes I wish that he would just be a bit more normal so he wouldn't be bullied so much."

"Oh, so it's his fault, is it?" Martha asked, coldly, turning to face her companion.

Eleanor blinked at her. "I …I didn't say–"

"Yes you did," the doctor snapped, cutting her off. "You said that if Tom was 'more normal' he wouldn't be bullied – in other words, that the bullies _choose_ to attack him for their own _pleasure_ is of _no consequence_: their choices and actions have no bearing on the matter. It's ju_**st**_ the one who isn_'t_ normal who is at fault: if _he _changed then it wouldn't happen, _tha__**t's**_what you're saying – and by saying that you are giving the bullies licence to keep going because you put no responsibility for their actions on _them_! I have an idea: why don't we send him to Germany and let _Herr Hitler_ deal with him? I hear the Dachau concentration camp is an_ excellen__**t**_place to get rid of people _who you don__**'t like**__!" _

For a long moment there was silence between the two women – as neither of them had truly expected such an outburst – and then the doctor's jaw twitched, her lips pursed and she entered the train cabin in a cold silence …although she neglected to prevent it from slamming behind her.

Mrs. Cole leaned her head against the wall next to the door; she was having a very bad day. "Concentration camp?" she mumbled, baffled, before standing up and shaking her head – Martha always had strange ideas, after all, and someone would have said something about it if it was really important.

* * *

In spite of how well the meeting with the crows had turned out, Tom was having a very bad day. His grapes had been stolen – and then returned: somewhat bruised – he'd scared Dennis, the other children were whispering behind his back _even more_ than usual, Mrs. Cole kept staring at him and, on top of everything else, Rosie had reappeared!

Tom, who had just taken a bath, for he and Dennis had been immediately sent to do so upon their return to the orphanage – which Tom thought was a pity because his uniform looked different from all the others when it was covered in dust: not necessarily prettier, but certainly more interesting – opened his bedroom door. A moment later he pulled it shut again, right up in front of his nose, without entering. The dead lady was in his room again.

"Could my day get any worse?" he asked aloud, not really expecting the universe to answer. It did, of course.

"I think I know why she is here," Rosie told him.

Tom, who had steadfastly ignored the little dead girl throughout his bath, finally broke and turned to glare at her. "And why would that be?" he asked, irritated.

With a single-shouldered half-shrug, Rosie replied, "She's your mother," as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

There was a very long silence as Tom stared at her – his irritation still somehow visible through his blank expression – before he said, "My mother died giving birth – not because her throat needed a bandage."

"The doctor has a cabinet in her office-area-place," the dead girl said, struggling to find the appropriate words. "She keeps her records there. If you don't believe me then go look for yourself."

For a long time Tom was silent, then – without a word to his unwelcome companion – he walked one door over, finding the door oddly ajar, and peered into the room. Upon ascertaining that it was, indeed, empty, Tom walked in and shut the door behind him. Not in the least perturbed by this, Rosie followed him by walking right through it.

However, Tom was already at the filing cabinet – which was very large in comparison to the pair of small children, as it was four drawers high and three wide – and searching the labels for the letter R (this, to him, was the logical place to start if the scary dead lady really _was _his mother). To Tom's irritation, however, he found the appropriate drawer was locked when he tried to open it and, with great difficulty, he used his …abilities... to rip it open. This meant he immediately had to dodge the oncoming drawer, but to his satisfaction the appropriate files landed almost on top of him (several others did, in fact, land on top of him).

"Oops," Tom said quietly, from beneath many of the papers.

Rosie giggled at him.

By the time Tom had put all the papers back in their proper places – especially as he had only thought to use his abilities when he had half-finished, so irritated by having to clean up the mess was he – describing his mood as 'extremely frustrated' would have been like claiming that a monsoon was 'somewhat wet'. Finally, however, Tom found himself sitting behind Martha's desk (and appearing, unbeknownst to him, terribly small as he did) and running his finger along the document as he read. After a few moments he paused, frowning, and he silently mouthed the word he was trying to figure out.

Thankfully, in his opinion, the doctor had taught him how to use her dic-tea-on-airy a few days earlier and therefore Tom, hoping as he did that he had read Martha's handwriting correctly, turned to the letter S and began to search for the word. He had to read the meaning given in the entry three times before he thought he understood it. Finally, he closed the book, clambered down from the chair and, with the file clenched in his little hands, left the room.

* * *

"How did my mother die?"

Mrs. Cole nearly dropped her fork – she had been aware that the children in the dining hall had grown unusually quiet, but she had not realised the boy was standing in front of her until he had spoken.

"How did my mother die?" Tom repeated; his voice shaking as he made the inquiry.

"This is really not the appropriate time for such a conversation, young man," the matron said firmly; she was sympathetic to the delicate nature of the subject, but that did not make the child's decision to barge into a meal and demand answers in any way acceptable behaviour.

"Did she kill herself?" Tom asked insistently.

Mrs. Cole's head snapped up at that question. Her face was quite ashen and if she had taken the time to look, she would have noted that the rest of the staff – the doctor included – appeared equally shaken.

"Is that what 'suicide' means? That she killed herself?" Tom leaned forward, a desperate and almost wild look in his eyes as he spoke.

"Tom," the matron said, attempting to diffuse the situation, "we've already told you what happened to your mother: she died in childbirth. She was too weak to survive the birt–"

"NO SHE DIDN'T!" Tom yelled. "TELL THE TRUTH!"

"I am becoming," Mrs. Cole said, as she stood, "_very tired_ of people cutting me off halfway through my sentences."

Whatever answer the boy had been expecting, that clearly wasn't it; for he stood in a flabbergasted silence for a few moments, opening and closing his mouth mutely, before he regained his mental balance. His face contorted in fury and he screamed, "I HATE YOU!"

The sound of the back of her hand hitting his face was not followed by an absolute silence: it was the loud crash of the boy hitting the floor a moment later that caused the silence.

The matron was still standing, frozen in shock at her actions, with her hand extended. The occupants of the room seemed to be in a sort of stupefied silence – it would have been perfectly understandable for the boy to be spanked given his behaviour, even (perhaps) in front of the rest of the children: considering that he had chosen to behave inappropriately in front of them, but that would have been a controlled punishment. The matron's reaction had not been controlled: she had struck out in anger and hit, not slapped but actually hit, the boy and he had stumbled to the floor…

…and when Tom looked up from the floor, raising himself up with his hands at either side of his face and his body still flat on the tiles, Eleanor Cole could see that there was blood on his lip – but whether it was from her wedding ring hitting his face or him biting his lip, or his tongue, she couldn't tell.

With tears of shock welling in his dark eyes, and an unfathomable expression on his face, the child grabbed the file he had been holding and fled the room. He therefore did not see the matron sink down into her chair, staring at the place he had fallen with abject horror in her eyes.

"God help me," she murmured. _That boy always brings out the worst in me. _

"You don't need a god to get rid of the gin," the doctor murmured in her ear as she passed.

* * *

Tom, surprisingly, was curled up behind her desk when she entered her infirmary and, upon seeing this, Martha raised an eyebrow.

"I don't recall teaching you to pick locks," she stated, referring to the file that lay on her desk; where the boy had clearly abandoned it.

Instead of replying to that comment, Tom stared blankly at a point just over his arms (which were wrapped around his legs: pulling them as close to his chest as physically possible) and stated, "She killed herself."

"Yes," the doctor replied, calmly and without inflection.

"She didn't want me," he said.

"Perhaps," the doctor said, mildly. "Or she may have wanted what was best for you."

Tom gave her an incredulous look.

"You never would have survived being raised by her," Doctor Elder said, still calmly and without inflection. "She had no education, no money and no prospects: you would have grown up starving on the streets and that is only presuming you survived in her care."

The doctor paused momentarily, noting that the boy still had a split lip, before continuing; her tone slightly softer, "Some people _are_ better off dead, Maas. The ones who say otherwise are the ones who have never felt that deep suffering themselves: those are the sanctimonious idiots and religious zealots like Mary who would rather force people to suffer for the sake of," the doctor paused again, sneering in distance, "the 'sanctity of life' than allow them the mercy of death."

"But you're a doctor," Tom objected, confused. "Aren't you supposed to stop people dying?"

"When I became a medical professional I took an oath to end suffering. Most people listen to fools like Mary and preach about how it is 'bad' to end one's own life – they would rather hurt people by keeping them alive then respect _their wishes_ and do something that would make them question their morals – but I do not," the doctor said firmly. "My job is to end suffering: _saving lives_ has very little to do with it."

Tom nodded vaguely, digesting this information, then turned back to stare at the point somewhere over his arms. "She's in my room again," he said.

"Perhaps you ought to talk to her," Martha replied, mildly.

* * *

Tom stared levelly at the dead woman on the other side of his room. A part of him felt as if the solid door behind him was the only thing keeping him standing.

"Martha says you named me after my father," he said, which – the moment he had said it – he suddenly realised was perhaps not the best of conversation starters.

The dead lady – _his mother_ – nodded, her ghastly head dipping and causing more silvery droplets to fall from her neck.

"She also said you wanted me to look like him," Tom added, his tone as calm and level – as mild – as his expression and gaze, "and that you chose to end your own life."

The ghastly apparition inclined its head again.

"HOW COULD YOU?" Tom roared, his expression changing from placid to wild and contorted with fury in an instant. "How could you _leave me behind_ that way? Did it _ever_ occur to you to_ find_ a way to survive, to keep living for me BECAUSE I MIGHT HAVE WANTED TO KNOW YOU?"

The dead lady actually took a step backward, shocked and somewhat frightened by the vehemence in her son's voice.

"How could you be so selfish? So weak?" Tom asked, desperate and hurt. "Martha thinks you might have wanted what was best for me," he added, his tone bitter with disbelief. "Yet you don't seem to _care_ that you make them think I'm _mad_ by _following me around_."

The ghost made no attempt to answer the question, other than to wear a wounded expression on her gaunt face and reach out a bony hand imploringly.

Tom's eyes darkened, his expression growing hard. "You're pathetic," he spat, a vicious sort of pleasure welling inside him as he noticed her flinch. He continued to speak, not so much knowing what he was saying or where he was taking the conversation – or even if everything he said was accurate – but relying on the dead lady's telling expressions to inform him of when he had hit a nerve, "You wanted me to be like him, like the one who left you: to look like him, be named like him – you only loved him, only cared about him. Not me, never me."

An expression of resolution crossed the little boy's face as he tilted his head up proudly, to look the shade right in the eyes, and he coldly said, "You wanted me to be like him, _mother_, and you got your wish: I don't want you either."

A stricken expression crossed the dead woman's face.

Tom observed her coldly. "Get out."

* * *

**A/N:** I suppose I really ought to apologise for keeping you all waiting so long – for some reason my muse for this story refused to co-operate …the result was that Tom spent an entire month of our time hanging in mid-fall above the ground at Stonehenge! I don't think he's exactly pleased with me at the moment. Also, to those of you who have been worried that this story wasn't going to get dark enough to produce the Tom we see in canon: this chapter marks the beginning – as Tom is now old enough to start acting on his anger rather than merely reacting to what makes him angry – of the darker trend in the story.

**To LavenderStorm: **Actually I did mean it to be funny – I have a fondness for black and macabre humour which, up until this point in the story, has not had much chance to show itself. It is for the very reason that Tom cannot fully grasp what he is being told that this becomes so important – in spite of Martha's good intentions, Tom is taking a twisted and rather inaccurate understanding of her lectures to heart. For example, Martha's complex opinion that 'sometimes a person staying alive is not the most fortuitous of possibilities' is misunderstood by Tom as 'some people ought to die'. I wouldn't say it is the background for it, exactly, as I believe all people have basic inborn personality types (and if you've ever heard of Myers-Briggs Personality Theory you'll understand what I mean when I say I believe Tom is an ENTP gone loopy), but it certainly helped. I'm glad you found the fork incident amusing.

**To ploffr:** I'm pleased to hear that you've been enjoying the story – and my portrayal of Tom – and can only hope you've actually read far enough to get to this reply, considering that you reviewed an early chapter. I am aware that Tom is becoming more and more exceptional as the story progresses, but as we know Tom was super smart, he has Martha pushing him and the social situation is forcing all children to mature faster; I think it's fairly believable, and hope you continue to like it.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** In no way should you feel slow for that – Henry Cole is the husband of Eleanor Cole, the young couple, while Samantha and Harold are/were the elderly pair. I'm glad to hear you liked my analysis of Parseltongue. Frankly I don't think many people consider that snakes don't have ears – it's been pointed out a few times, but not often. Well, the only part of America I've lived in was California, so I suppose that makes sense. Let's just say that Tom's never heard a proper Texas accent and the snake was using what Tom mistakenly thought he should sound like, shall we?


	35. In the Empty Room: September 23rd, 1933

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** Firstly, I'd like to apologise for leaving all of you waiting for so long. Secondly – and, yes, I know I'm not being fair: keeping you from the chapter even longer – I'd like to quickly go over a few points which keep nagging at me when I look over all the reviews I've had for this story since I began it. Most of you have picked up on most or all of it, but I figured it bore mentioning anyway.

A) If Tom Riddle acted the way he did when he met Dumbledore all the time, or even just a fair bit, he would not have even been in the orphanage when he was eleven: he long since would have been locked away in an insane asylum because orphanages – both then and now – could not have coped with such a child.

B) A great deal of the serial killers known in the modern era – such as Ted Bundy – were considered by everyone who knew them to be nice, quiet guys …even after they were caught the people who knew them had a hard time believing it was possible. Behaving like a normal – or even extremely nice and kind – person is not mutually exclusive with violent behaviour: canon states that Tom did not cry much, but there is no reason to believe he was not a happy child. Bundy even worked for a suicide hotline – and he was good at it!

C) Likewise, children as young as _ten_ have been known to beat other children – their peers – to _death_ in severe forms of bullying. This is called bullycide. Usually the perpetrators do not have explanations for why they do this beyond that the dead child was 'kind of weird'. Average bullying, on the other hand, can result in anything (in the victims) from tears and a few bruises to suicide, broken bones, hospital stays and self-confidence and self-esteem problems that last a lifetime. The youngest recorded suicide because of bullying (also bullycide, since the bullies are ultimately responsible) was an eight year old girl who hung herself with her skipping rope because she had no other way of escaping the abuse of her peers. The reason I mention this is that the bullies, the ones responsible, are perfectly ordinary – even nice and popular – children who are mentally and emotionally normal. Based on this information, I see absolutely no reason why there needs to be some dark cause for Tom's later violence.

D) The united point of comments A, B and C is that the title of this story bears consideration.

E) On a less related note: I write this story by my own opinions about right and wrong; which, I know for a fact, differ from J.K.R.'s. One of the of the most important – and which I see the most (in other fics, in reviews and even in comments by J.K.R. herself) – is that people use 'evil' and 'insane' both interchangeably and in conjunction. As far as I am concerned, evil and insane are completely _mutually exclusive._ That is to say, one cannot be both evil and insane. An insane person, I grant, may commit acts that society deems 'evil' but the person themselves is not so. In spite of what Hollywood suggests, the insanity plea does not just exist to get mob henchmen out of hard jail time.

F) Finally, tying all these notes in together: I write this story on the conclusion that Tom – at the age of eleven – was a bitter, vicious child, but not yet either evil or insane.

I'm sorry if that all came out sounding like a bit of a rant, but I figured I might as well make my point of view on the matter a bit clearer.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five: In the Empty Room**

Tom Riddle had a problem – a problem he was quite certain no other orphan had ever been forced to face: his mother refused to leave him alone. It would, perhaps, have been less of a problem if the late Mrs. Riddle had fussed over him and been a constant nagging presence demanding to know whether Tom had remembered to brush his teeth and put on fresh pants – but it was not so. She simply hovered.

It was quite understandable that she made no attempts to talk, given the state of her throat, but she made no attempt to do anything else, either. In fact, the late Mrs. Riddle had obeyed her son's demand that she leave him alone – at least at first – until the twelfth of August, at which point she had returned and begun following him from room to room …although never actually attempting to make contact. Her presence was extremely disconcerting to Tom – not just because he was the only person who could see her, but also because the dead lady had discovered (some time before her return) that the dead do not need to blink or sleep and so had followed him with a ceaseless, unblinking, gaze ever since she had returned.

After more than a month, constantly having eyes on him was beginning to get to Tom. The doctor, somewhat understandably considering her profession, had been the first to notice: the boy had lost weight, had dark circles under his eyes indicating a lack of sufficiently restful sleep and had begun to fidget. Jonathan Stone, who had the boy in his classes five days a week, had been the second. However, it had not been the physical signs that the teacher had noticed – instead it had been how the other students gave the boy a wide berth when they found their seats, how the boy's (usually exquisite) penmanship had become increasingly illegible and how the (still undeniably brilliant) child had become sarcastic and uncooperative. Mrs. Cole, meanwhile, had long since noticed that there were more incidents involving the boy having fits of temper being recorded than there had previously been, but it wasn't until reports started coming in – from the staff and older orphans – that the boy was almost constantly distracted and often glanced over his shoulder (as if he believed he was being followed) that she truly began to take a serious interest.

Although Tom was aware that the majority of the staff had become concerned by his behaviour, he was not certain if any of them – excluding Martha, who seemed to have observed that an unearthly chill was in the room on multiple occasions – understood the reason for his sudden change of behaviour. It was for that reason that he was staring somewhat reluctantly at the door of the Matron's office. The chances of finding her in there were actually rather low, but Tom figured it was the logical place to start. His mother, as usual, had nothing to say on the matter. Of course, she most likely had not even figured out what he was doing there. Tom opened the door.

"You can't blame me for worrying!" the matron had exclaimed as the door opened, although none of the occupants of the room appeared to have noticed the child's intrusion.

"I don't recall saying anything of the sort," the doctor replied coolly.

"You always say something of that sort," Mary muttered, almost mutinously.

"I want attention," Tom told them.

The three women turned to him, with various amounts of shock in their expressions: for instance the doctor had raised an eyebrow and Mary's jaw had actually dropped in a manner which would have been comical if only it were not so unflattering to her features, and stared.

Mary, surprisingly, was the first to regain the power of speech after the shock of the topic of the conversation literally wandering in on them. "Tom!" she exclaimed. "You cannot just say things like that: it's not polite!"

Tom blinked at her, wrinkling his nose in confusion. "But it's true!" he replied, his tone verging on an auditory pout; if ever there was such a thing.

"That doesn't mean it is acceptable to say it," Mrs. Cole told him, sternly.

Unsurprisingly, the little boy turned and glowered up at her – his arms folded and his chin tipped in a manner which could only be described as challengingly. "Yesterday you told me I shouldn't lie and that I _had_ to tell the truth: _so I did_," he informed her, making it very clear in his tone that he thought she was being very immature and that his actually obeying her had been a large concession on his part, "and _now_ you say I should_n't_." For a moment his expression verged on a childish exasperation, before he firmly told her to, "Choose one!"

In spite of his inappropriate attitude and his high-handedness, the desperately adult image the child was mimicking and presented was undeniably adorable – especially his dissatisfaction with what he perceived as the adults changing the rules on him – and Martha couldn't quite stop a tiny upward quirk of the right side of her lips from occurring, so she momentarily pretended to cough into her hand in a useless (at least to the adults) attempt to hide her amusement. Tom failed to notice this and while he was failing to do so, the doctor herself was failing to notice the matron noticing her hand reaching – on its way back down from her mouth and false coughing fit – momentarily at her neck: as if searching for the chain of a necklace or other decoration. Mary, on the other hand, failed to notice anything beyond her own – increasingly frustrated – attempts to explain that 'not lying' and 'telling the truth even when it is rude' were different things and that neither was appropriate. Stubbornly, Tom insisted that Sherlock Holmes did both all the time; so it _couldn't_ be wrong.

Despite her earlier amusement, it was Martha who put an end to the debate (which – in spite of all logical expectations – Tom was winning, mainly due to his opponent's increasing confusion and exasperation). "Why are you here, Maas?" she inquired sharply, speaking over her colleague.

Tom's eyes lit up, as if the reminder that he had (most likely, as it was impossible to tell with the boy's impulsiveness) walked in for a reason was somehow pleasing to him or that why he was there was somehow exiting. He turned to the matron and fixed her with his most serious and earnest expression. "I need you to bring me the reverend," he told her solemnly.

The three women traded baffled glances, which were not in the least discrete, before Mrs. Cole – choosing to momentarily overlook his rudeness – replied, "Why would that be, young man?"

Tom placed his palms on her desk and leaned forward – closer to her face – and very seriously said, "I'm being haunted."

Martha's eyebrow raised again, not so much because of what he had said – she was already aware a dead person must be present once more, judging by the fogged windows that followed the boy – as by the fact that he had told someone else about it.

Eleanor Cole actually managed to smile, albeit somewhat patronisingly, at him. "Really?" she asked, her tone clearly betraying that she was merely humouring him. Then she fixed him with a stern expression and added, "Tom, it is very rude to walk into someone's rooms or office without knocking. We were in the middle of an important conversation."

"About me," the boy said, perceptive as ever.

The matron tensed, notably. "Why, if I may ask," she inquired again, far more coldly than the last time, "did you feel to interrupt a private discussion to demand the presence of a very busy man who does not even work here?"

"It's not Sunday," Tom pointed out, failing to realise that his logic – that church was on Sunday, so he wouldn't be that busy on Saturday since that wasn't a Sunday – was not quite so self-evident to the adults as it was to him.

"You didn't answer my question, young man," Mrs. Cole said sharply.

Tom gave her an oddly patient look – as if he felt sorry for her because she hadn't understood him. "The older boys say churchy-peoples can make bad spirits go away," he explained, "so I need the reverend to exercise my room."

Martha frowned at him, her expression implying – although not actually showing – both disbelief and disgust. "That's ridiculous, Maas," she told him crossly. "I thought I taught you better than to believe in that religious rubbish."

Tom actually flinched at her tone.

Mary, on the other hand, turned to the doctor and, sporting an outraged expression, opened her mouth to reply – indubitably at great length and volume – to the doctor's vicious comments. This, however, was prevented by the matron raising a hand in her direction; silently ordering her to remain silent.

"Is this …haunting what is preventing you from sleeping right, Tom?" the matron asked, her ill disposition toward the boy disappearing in favour of her concerns at his recent behaviour and his health.

Tom nodded very solemnly, although he behaved as if he was trying to avoid looking both at an empty corner of the room and at the doctor.

"And you believe that having Reverend Honeycutt banish any evil spirits from your room will help you to sleep better?" Mrs. Cole pressed, her tone and expression both quite serious.

Tom's answering nod was extremely enthusiastic, although the only change in his facial expression was the bright gleam in his eyes that seemed to imply a certain amount of desperation.

The matron nodded once, as if to herself, and then spoke; "Mary, kindly go and fetch the reverend."

Both Mary and Martha looked at her, startled. Neither had, quite understandably, expected her to take the boy's request seriously.

"Mary," the matron repeated, her tone making it clear that she did not appreciate the silent questioning of her command any more than she appreciated being kept waiting.

Mary, somewhat shaken, nodded and left – Martha watched her go, pursing her lips as she did, which was the only indication of exactly how outraged she was that the matron was actually calling in a priest. Tom, however, smiled gratefully at Mrs. Cole and, with a single and almost frightened glance in Martha's direction, left the room.

"You honestly believe in that religious nonsense?" Martha asked coldly, the derision clear in her tone. She had turned her back on her colleague, in favour of watching Mary's progress, out of the courtyard, through the window. Her hand, Eleanor noticed, was once again feeling for a chain that wasn't there.

"Do I believe the boy is being haunted?" the matron replied. "I don't know." There was a brief pause. "Do I believe that the reverend has the power to expel such a spirit, if there is one?" Again Eleanor paused, before quietly admitting, "No." Her next comment, however, was in no way soft or indecisive: "What I _do_ believe is that the _boy_ thinks it will help and that if _he_ believes it to be so then humouring him may help him to sleep."

"Impressive," the doctor murmured, after her reflection in the window had raised an eyebrow (at least, that was what Eleanor had seen, but it was proof enough that the actual woman had done the same).

"I'm not completely stupid, Martha," Mrs. Cole snapped, irritated by the doctor's tone.

"I am aware of that," Doctor Elder replied blandly.

"Is that why you were so quick to keep me from getting a better look at what was inside your locket?" Eleanor asked sharply. She then smiled somewhat viciously, when the doctor tensed, and added, "I recall you being quite quick to put your hand over it that day – as if you didn't want anyone to know what was in there. A picture of two dark haired children, if I recall correctly. _Maartje and Maasje_, I believe the inscription said."

"_Make your_ _poin__**t**_, Eleanor," Martha said; her voice still cold but no longer entirely quite so toneless.

Something in that tone, perhaps that it was still so controlled, caused the matron's temper to snap. "HE IS NOT YOUR _BROTHER_, MARTHA!" she yelled.

"_I know_ tha_t_," Martha snarled, raising her voice surprisingly fast.

"_Doting on Tom_ will NOT BRING YOUR BROTHER _BACK_!" Eleanor screamed.

Martha spun around, her expression wilder than the matron had ever seen it before and – as if to match the unleashed fury (and many other, unidentifiable emotions) in her eyes – her too-long hair flared wildly around her. She jabbed one, shaking, finger (with her outstretched arm trembling just as much) at the door and – the very picture of cold and controlled fury, both in expression and tone – spat, "Get out."

In her almost feral attitude, Doctor M. Elder was – quite possibly – the most frightening sight Eleanor had ever beheld. Still, she kept her voice surprisingly steady as she replied, "It's _my_ office."

The doctor stalked out without another word and Eleanor sank – suddenly exhausted and quite depressed, as the exhilaration of having figured out something the doctor had kept so private wore off – into her chair. "Good lord," she groaned, speaking softly to herself as she reached for her secret bottle of (heavily watered-down) gin. "Good lord, where does the madness start? With him …or with _her_?"

* * *

Tom was sitting by the front door. Even in her fury, it was not a fact that the doctor could miss. She also could not help but notice the protective way he had curled up into a little ball, as if it would stop the outside world from getting to him.

He had evidently been waiting for her, as he spoke as soon as she had shut the door behind her. "I already tried everything else," he said softly.

"Enunciate, you simpleton," she told him – and she did so coldly, for her anger had not yet abated.

Tom raised his little head, looking up at the doctor; defiantly. "I already tried everything else," he repeated, louder. "I even took one of Simon the Cook's big knives and tried to get rid of her eyes, so that she would stop _staring_ at me."

A spasm of panic seemed to cross the doctor's face. "Do you still have it?" she inquired, her tone sharpened by her alarm and concern.

Tom shook his head mournfully. "I put it back," he told her, the sorrow clear in his voice. "It didn't do anything – actually: it dripped silvery liquid, but her eyes kept working. So I put it back." Hesitantly, he continued, "I thought maybe Hubert could help – being a church-person – because they can't _all_ be wrong." There was another pause. "Can they?"

"Can they what?" Martha asked.

"All be wrong," Tom replied, "about God and Hell and exercising spirits and all that. They all think it's true and it's fact and… and can they really all be stupid enough to live by something that is… is _fairy-books_?"

Martha's eyebrow quirked, slightly, and she spoke calmly, "There was a time when it was 'common knowledge' that the world was flat."

Tom's face twisted with incredulity and he exclaimed, "But that's STUPID!"

The doctor raised an eyebrow at him.

"…oh," the boy said a moment later, as realisation set in.

The doctor inclined her head slightly at him, then turned and walked away.

"I'M STILL NOT YOUR BROTHER!" Tom called after her, his tone vicious with bitter anger and jealousy, just before she could begin to ascend the stairs.

Martha turned to him and, although she spoke with surprising calm (and at barely more than a whisper; had she spoken so softly somewhere with poorer acoustics the sound would not have reached its recipient) her tone betrayed more pain than he had ever seen or heard in her before. All she said was, "I know."

* * *

The reverend and the matron traded looks, the former choosing to glance around surreptitiously as he shut the door – indubitably he was aware that many of the children found the idea of him banishing a spirit _right there; in their own orphanage_ to be exciting.

"It's an empty room," he said mildly. He had, of course, done what the boy had asked of him – after the matron had explained exactly why she had agreed to it; only for the boy's peace of mind – but he honestly hadn't believed in what he was doing.

Mrs. Cole nodded, having expected as much. "Over active imagination, no doubt," she replied. "I truly appreciate you doing this for us, Reverend."

Hubert Honeycutt smiled gently and nodded, however as a thought struck him his smile became rather fixed. Tentatively, he said, "He is certainly an …unusual boy, is he not?"

The matron nodded again. "He is that," she agreed. "I suppose that he is so intelligent is a part of it, it's why Doctor Elder gives him private lessons on Sundays. Although sometimes I wonder…" Eleanor Cole sighed and cut herself off. Martha Elder was certainly not _usual_, but she was extremely sane – even with her earlier worries Mrs. Cole could not deny that. After a few glasses of watered-down gin, strictly to calm her nerves, she had concluded that the doctor emotionally replacing her brother with Tom could not be a sign of madness, as many families who either could not reproduce or had lost their child had come to the orphanage looking to adopt. Tom, however, was another matter. The boy had recently informed her that – if the reverend was unsuccessful – he intended to start carrying the stick his mother left behind, to poke 'The Lady' into going away whenever she appeared, because Martha refused to let him have one of the, dangerously sharp, bread-knives. Mrs. Cole had told him that the doctor was being very logical about it – all the while, inside, feeling as if the residents of the orphanage had been very lucky the boy had thought to _ask_. The doctor had not missed the grateful glance she had been given when she had ushered the boy away from his attempt to make the greatest authority he knew force the doctor to reconsider (he had started with pleading and moved straight on to begging before the doctor had arrived to take him down to lunch).

Reverend Honeycutt frowned at her. "The other children have said that he does not attend church because he is slightly mad," he told her, quiet concern clear in his voice.

"What would they say if he alone was given special lessons?" Mrs. Cole replied tartly. "He has a …a gift."

The moment realisation struck him was clear in that his kind eyes widened. "I am aware," he murmured. "Almost a year ago, now, he made all the candles in the church light themselves – and fly. I have kept my peace so far, but sometimes I fear that he is …not of this Earth, nor of its Heaven."

Although her face was quite ashen, the young matron took a kind of courage from the elderly man's words and chose to trade closely held concern for closely held concern. "Sometimes I wonder if he is not queer in the head," she murmured, almost breathlessly. "Yet if I were to try and say why; well, all the differences I could find between him and the others would be little – inconsequential, even – yet he's not quite… normal. I can say that he feels different than the others, but there is no reason why." Mrs. Cole paused for a moment, before adding, "Except for his abilities, that is – but they are clearly not the product of madness in the mind. This haunting business? Yes; a child's fears or madness. Yet the abilities I have seen with my own eyes."

Hubert Honeycutt reached out gently and squeezed her hand. "I do not believe a child can be evil," he told her, "and from what I have seen I would be more likely to believe that – if he is truly unearthly – he comes from above than that he comes from below. Yet, still…" he paused for a moment, then gently squeezed her hand again. "Please be careful, my dear."

Standing directly by them, and yet unnoticed, Merope frowned.

* * *

Although it was not, literally speaking, true, for all practical purposes Reverend Honeycutt's bedroom was empty. The elderly man himself was in bed, deeply asleep, and he was not at all aware that he had been followed home.

Mrs. Riddle looked around herself, curiously. Nothing in the room endeared the old man to her any more than he already was – which, quite frankly, was not at all.

She had been desperately miserable when her son had proclaimed that he did not want her and she had fled back to Little Hangleton – trying to make contact with her husband and alert him to the existence of their child; in vain, as it had turned out – for a time. The visit had, however, brought into startling clarity how much she had given up in her grief at her husband's betrayal. She had given up her _son_. She had entrusted her son to the doctor, without considering what it would mean to watch her son grow up with _another woman_ in the place of mother – to watch _Martha Elder_ teach her son to read, to walk …to watch Martha Elder be given her son's smiles, his spontaneous hugs, his life; essentially. Merope_ hated_ it.

She couldn't deny that she was happy to see her son alive, well-cared for and – even if it was not truly affection meant for him – one might even say loved. Yet visiting Little Hangleton had thrown into sharp relief exactly _why _her baby boy felt the way he did about her. Martha Elder was _perfect_: wealthy, aristocratic, highly-educated and beautiful – she was exactly the kind of woman Tom would have married if Merope hadn't intervened. The only thing she lacked was tact, but Merope doubted very much that her Tom would have minded: considering that the tart who he had been riding with, the day the Ministry officials had arrested her father and brother, had been both tactless and stupid, the cold doctor would most likely have been considered an_ improvement_. She was completely unlike Merope, who had been many steps down, according to her husband. The worst thing about it, Mrs. Riddle had long decided, was that Martha Elder _looked_ like she could really be Tommy's mother, more so than Merope ever had.

Yet for all that Merope hated Martha Elder, she considered her tolerable: in spite of everything, she protected Tom. Regardless of their differences, they were on the same side. This …Reverend… Merope had concluded, was most certainly not on their side. In one breath he had claimed not to believe her son was dangerous and at the same time turned people against him by warning them to be careful around him.

In life she had done next to nothing for her son – to attached to the memory of his father to care for him – and so, Merope had concluded, she ought to do what little she could for him now that she was dead. From experience, Merope could definitely say that _dying _for one's offspring did very little to help them; and she certainly knew more on the subject than living people; since she actually had _done_ it. It was all very well and good to be noble about things, she decided as she approached the sleeping reverend, but it was meaningless if the practical results were not acceptable (Martha's tuition, she noted bitterly, had helped more than just her son to improve his vocabulary). In a similar way, she had always thought it was stupid that her spell books said that murder ripped the soul apart while self-defence killing did not. As a dead person, she had concluded that dead was dead and how and why one ended up so did not make a difference – add the wrong ingredient on purpose or by mistake and the problems with the potion would still be_ exactly the same_.

Merope, therefore, had no reason to call what she did wrong: she was doing it to protect her son, and she was a Slytherin – not by nature ruthless, but practical and she thus saw no reason to allow a danger to sneak up on him when she could just as easily remove it at a distance; so there would be no noble, heroic battle, but her child would never be in danger. As she lay down next to the elderly reverend, she concluded that the truly more loving parent would not allow ideals – which never even _had_ lives of their own – to come before protecting their child.

The late Mrs. Riddle wrapped her arms and legs around Reverend Honeycutt's sleeping form and smiled, satisfied, at the empty room (for little Rose had told her all about the fire in the nursery, although she had seen it herself, and how it was started and it was very convenient, really, very practical) because she knew that the police would eventually find that no one had broken in and no one had gone out …and that an old man had died in his sleep, of exposure (ghosts were cold by nature, but how could it be ruled foul play without a mark on him?). Her smile widened slightly as the old man's lips began to turn blue.

From experience, Merope Riddle could say that love was probably the most evil-inducing and destructive force in the world – yet she had also heard that a mother's love was powerful and pure. Love had led her to rape, pain and hurt; love had led her to kill. From her far more knowledgeable and experienced perspective, however, she knew there was nothing wrong with killing (especially not to protect her son), after all: only the _living _had a stigma about it ...and they did_n't _know what they were talking about, _their very status as alive proved that_. With that thought she wrapped herself tighter around him, and she remained that way for many hours after Hubert Honeycutt had grown stiff in death; until all the blood had drained from his upturned face and pooled in his back, like a giant bruise, and the moisture on his eyeballs had formed a thin layer of ice.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** I'm very glad to hear the story gained emotional reactions from you; it always makes my day to hear that. I hope it is the mark of a good writer, since I'm working toward making it my profession. I cannot find words to express how pleased I am to know you approve of the subtleties of the characterisation I have been trying to achieve, and that – from what you have said – what I have been tried to do with Martha's advice has been working …well, I could find the words, but that would involve several paragraphs worth of description regarding the looks I was given by my various relations for the strange little impromptu happy dance and squee-ing. To answer your question: I could go into great detail regarding development and psychology, but it daresay the simpler answer is the more comprehensible (if somewhat arrogant). I, myself, was an extremely intelligent child – the educational programmes I watched when I was four were meant for children roughly around twelve years of age, for instance, and I picked up on their vocabulary; as well as that of the adults around me, who were (like Martha) not partial to baby talk and simplifying things. Although Tom's personality and situation are significantly different from my own, I felt that basic developmental stages were compatible enough to use my own childhood as a rough guideline. I am well aware that my speed of speech development – and subsequently, therefore, Tom's – was highly unusual, so you are perfectly right to have been dubious.

**To Hiei's Cute Girl:** I must ask you to pass on my thanks to your friend, then, for their great compliment. I can only hope that my writing continues to live up to their – and your – expectations. I wish I could express just how flattered I am by your comments, but the sheer positivity and eloquence of your review has quite literally robbed me of words – the only word which has stuck around is gobsmacked and considering that I had never expected my writing to be compared, in even the most minor of ways, to that of Tolkien (I must admit I have not read _The Catcher in the Rye_) I can't help but think it appropriate. As for hating yourself on account of not finding this earlier? Don't. Between the amount of rubbish that is written in this fandom and not liking how the last few books were handled (something to which I can actually relate, since a lot of things in them make me tear at my hair) it is perfectly reasonable not to delve into the fandom that often. In fact I've pretty much quit reading other fanfics in the Potterverse myself.

I also have to say that your review has given me a great amount of hope – both for this series and for my original fiction – and even if you should cease your happy stalking, your words have given me additional confidence in my work; which was not there before.

The best of life and luck to you as well – and I'm very glad you liked the crow scene. I've got a passion for fairy tales and nursery rhymes myself, and I've always been fond of the corvidae family of birds …although I must admit I'm more partial to magpies.

**To PsycheKonare:** I'm afraid that I had to give up on replying to each of your reviews so far in separate sections, so my replies may not match in order with your comments; my apologies. I'm sorry if my disappearance – however temporary – alarmed you. My sister came for a three week holiday and she is, unintentionally mind you, almost a living personification of writers block …her presence isn't conducive to my getting any work done. I will complete this story (unless I die, but that is unlikely). And don't worry about your so-called 'procrastinating' – the amount of reviews I have, all of which are positive, is far more than I ever expected to receive. I'm glad you like the character depth (I always found it annoyingly missing in so many other fics, which is part of why I started writing this) and my attention to detail. To answer your question about Tom and violence, which you asked about when Tom was not quite five: he had yet to have much exposure, in any way, to violence; the concept was still quite foreign to him, both in how it could be used and why it might be used. I've always been more partial to believing Tom – eventually Lord Voldemort, as well – was an insane man committing evil acts rather than an evil man committing evil, or insane, acts – but in answer to your question, about when he will become the (to quote you) "evil!Tom", by the plan I'm working from: when he's about twenty-two.

I'm glad you appreciated that Chekhov's Gun (and I'm pleased to hear someone else using the term), as I always try to make sure I leave no unnecessary loose ends (except, of course, in cases like that of Arnold; in which the lack of reason and answers was the entire point). I'm doing my best to – as J.K.R. did – keep Chekhov's Armoury well stocked, but not over-flowing, and I hope you approve of the others when they pop up.

There's nothing to forgive; long names can be very interesting. As for the point you raised, it is a very good one – and one to which I gave a good deal of thought (and caused me to spend a great deal of time comparing images of decapitated heads from the era Sir Nicholas died and slit throats). Firstly, I concluded that the injuries sustained during execution by decapitation with a reasonably blunt instrument (which it must have been, as it took several attempts to remove his head and even that was never actually finished) and those sustained when the throat is slit are decidedly different: decapitation most often takes off the head at the base of the skull (the top of the neck) or where the spine reaches the shoulders (the bottom of the neck), whereas a slit throat tends to occur in the middle of the throat. Moreover, when someone is executed by decapitation, they are usually made to look down – the first, and most likely fatal, injuries are to the back of the neck (and for Sir Nicholas this clearly meant his throat would have had to have been the last thing hit, no matter what the films may show) – but a slit throat is a frontal injury: the injury is not only fatal, but also occurs before the person is dead. The Headless Hunt can also speak, but they were also all decapitated – it's a different kind of injury. Of course, as you know by now, it did take Merope almost _seven years_ to figure out she neither needed to blink nor breathe… so it could also be explained another way. According to canon, yes: being neither here nor there, Merope can never move on – that's what Sir Nicholas says, after all.

As for not liking Wicked? On principle I don't approve of money being made on fan works and the music isn't to my tastes. But to each their own. I would think it makes sense that a crowded orphanage in the centre of a large city is the most likely place to find more than one 'special' child. Thank you for your reviews. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.


	36. Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** I apologise for keeping you all waiting so long for this chapter. I meant to have it finished at the end of August, but I fell ill.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones… December 31st, 1933  
**

The only reason, in Mrs. Cole's opinion, that the quietly twisted relationship between Doctor Elder and the Riddle boy had lasted the three months since the death of Reverend Honeycutt – when the doctor had pushed the upset child away with a complaint that he was ruining her favourite skirt with his snivelling – was that Martha remained the only member of the staff who took _The Times_ and was therefore the only person to whom Tom could go for their daily crosswords. That was not to say that the matron had failed to notice the boy's habit of tearing the crosswords out of the other newspapers read by members of the staff, only that Martha alone would let him scribble in her newspaper …and, naturally, once Mrs. Cole had noticed that Doctor Elder was taking _The Manchester Guardian_ as well as _The Times_ it had not taken her long to realise that the humorous crosswords in the former, which the boy found so appealing, were meant solely as an appeasement. Unless, of course, they were meant as handwriting practise as well, which the combination of Martha's handwriting and what looked to be Tom's when he was allowed to have at the doctor's fine _Waterman_ pens (the former regularly had been found on top of the latter) seemed to suggest.

The only reason the matron did not protest this ridiculous extravagance was that Doctor Elder always surrendered _The Guardian_ to the older orphans, once the Riddle boy was done with it (that the used newspapers made good kindling for the fire notwithstanding). In fact, she had nearly put a stop to it the day she had discovered that Tom was dutifully collecting and cataloguing the obituaries. Mrs. Cole had only accepted this odd behaviour after Tom – and Dennis, who had been helping him with his "files" – explained that he needed them so that he would have a proper reference basis for when he became a famous detective, just like Sherlock Holmes had, so he could put away bad people (but only if they were really bad, he had insisted, since Mr. Holmes let some of the 'not-quite-as-bad' ones go) and be regarded as 'brilliant' rather than just 'odd'. It had been the dejectedness of his entire attitude when he mentioned that the other orphans thought he was odd that had caused the matron to relent. He was, after all, just a child at play – even if his decision to steal the magnifying glass from Doctor Elder's desk and spend most of Christmas day running about with it and shouting "Come, Watson!" to Dennis at inopportune moments had not won him any sympathy from Martha …let alone the many people he accidentally frightened with his sudden exclamations.

For all that the Riddle boy made her uncomfortable – and most likely got away with many things he should not have, she was certain, like the mess he had made of her wedding – she felt sorry that the orphanage couldn't really afford to get him a little something for his seventh birthday …they had enough trouble just buying Coca-Cola and watering it down for all of the children on New Years and, honestly, he would just be getting two things on the same day anyway.

* * *

"It's my birthday," Tom said, tugging on the doctor's white cardigan.

"Felicitations on your seventh natal day," the doctor replied dryly, not taking her eyes away from her book.

"Thaaa," the boy whined, tugging on her sleeve again.

"If you are expecting a present, you will be most disappointed," Martha stated, still apparently focused on her book.

"I want you to read to me," Tom said.

At this the doctor's eyebrows quirked and she said, "You should be able to read for yourself by now."

"I _can_," Tom replied stubbornly, sounding somewhat more childlike than he allowed himself to when he was around the other children; at least, the children who laughed at him. "I_ want_ you to – besides, Sh'lock has big words in it."

Martha glanced briefly at him from the corner of her eye. "Your present is on your bed," she informed him, a note of wry amusement in her voice, "don't tell the others about it."

"I'm not stupid," Tom replied, hugging her tightly (and without any warning) around the waist, before dashing off through his wardrobe to find his present and leaving her looking distinctly perturbed.

It was not, however, his present that he found on his bed mere moments after speaking with the doctor. It was little Amy Benson, who had – judging by the state of the room – clearly been going through his things in a distracted and haphazard fashioned.

"_**What **__are you __**doing**__?_" Tom snapped; his eyes narrowed furiously as they followed the movement of the old stick the little girl was waving around.

Amy turned to beam at him. "Look at I found!" she proclaimed proudly, waving the stick at him. For a moment it seemed to have little white sparkles trickling from its narrower end, where a crack ran along half a finger's length of the old wood.

"That's mine!" Tom exclaimed, quite understandably furious, and moved to snatch it from her pudgy little hands.

Amy's hands, however, turned out to be stronger than they appeared and the little blonde girl was stubbornly refusing to let go of what she considered to be her interesting new toy. "NO!" she screeched, digging her heels into the floor – an instinctive reaction – to prevent Tom from pulling her over as he attempted to extract his mother's stick from her oddly sticky fingers.

"LET GO!" Tom yelled, pulling on the stick – albeit it somewhat more gently than the girl: he, after all, was aware that it was old and breakable.

Amy angled herself slightly more to the left as she tried to keep Tom from winning 'her' prize and her long hair began to fall in front of her eyes, having come loose from its pretty ribbon, as she did. "MINE!" she insisted, raising her voice even louder.

"GIVE IT BACK!" Tom screamed at her, pulling sharply to the right as he did.

The snapping sound was painfully loud.

From the floor, Tom stared dazedly at the broken piece of wood in his hand. After a few, brief, moments of silence, he blinked blankly at it; not quite able to comprehend what had happened.

_She broke my mother's stick. She _broke_**my mother's**__ stick._ As the thought echoed in his head, Tom felt a sort of inexplicable loss. The stick itself was worthless, practically falling apart as well, and Tom had no particular love of his mother. Therefore, that the damage to it had provoked such grief was baffling to him.

"Broke my stick," Amy whined from where she had fallen, snivelling over her sore knees as she did.

Tom's head snapped up as he turned his blazing eyes upon her. He was moved by a sort of cold fury which he had never felt before. He stood and stalked over to her – he, taller than the average seven year old, towered over the girl who had not quite turned four yet – and glared at her, trembling from head to toe in barely repressed rage. "That was my mother's," he informed her in a cold, but mild, tone.

Amy's eyes widened – although from fear or understanding of the implications it was impossible to tell; it could simply have been that he was blocking the light – and, in a motion that proved conclusively that her knees could not have been hurt anywhere near as much as she had implied they were by her behaviour, she sprang to her little feet and fled the room.

Tom stood in the middle of his room, with his belongings scattered across the floor and the narrow end of his mother's stick clutched in his hand like a sort of miniature club, in silence for a moment, then crashed to his knees, and cried.

* * *

Someone was smoothing down his covers; it was the first thing of which he was aware.

Tom blinked confusedly and looked around.

"You've been asleep since just after breakfast," Doctor Elder told him calmly, from her seat on the side of his bed – not, he noticed, actually his bed so much as the one in the infirmary he had been temporarily graced with.

Tom blinked at her, then blinked again because Mokey was on the pillow and made a little noise of confusion.

"You cried yourself to sleep," the doctor clarified. "Unsurprising, perhaps, as you are not so inclined to weeping as the majority of the snivelling children whom I am so often forced to tend." There was a pause, before the doctor added, "She did a great deal of damage to your things, the Benson girl – I doubt somewhat that the words Miss Bonner had with her will have been sufficient."

Tom nodded vaguely.

"Your room has been tidied up and as much repair as could have been done, to those things she broke, in the time that has elapsed has been done. Unfortunately," Martha told him, "your magnifying glass was broken beyond repair."

Tom frowned at her in bafflement, for he knew she had forced him to return the magnifying glass he had borrowed from her desk.

However, apparently unaware or uninterested in this, Martha continued, "If you blow your nose and wash your face with quite well, before you go down to dinner, it should be relatively unlikely that anyone will notice the signs of your recent emotional upset."

Although he was still somewhat confused, Tom nodded.

* * *

"What's wrong with your eyes?"

Tom winced and hunched further over his food in response to the older boy's inquiry. There was something about the tone of the inquiry which would have made Tom wary even if it hadn't been uttered by Sammy – the nine and a half year old who was the most outspokenly vicious toward Tom. In fact, Samuel Chase's attitude toward him was something that confused Tom greatly: he was aware, factually speaking, that Sammy found it embarrassing that Tom – who was so much younger than him – could be studying at the same level as he was (Mister Stone had moved Tom up in his studies again, except in spelling: wherein Tom had proven that he could spell 'illuminate' and 'indubitable' without even needing to think about it, but still insisted that 'cat' should have a 'k') and, in fact, do better than him. However, Tom did not understand why the older boy therefore insisted on wasting the energy he used to bother Tom when he could have been using it to improve his own results. Unfortunately, the one time Tom had tried to explain this to the older boy, Sammy's response had been to immediately cry out, to their teacher, that Tom was trying to copy his assignment. Mister Stone hadn't believed it, of course, because Tom made a point of always handing in his work early (rather than just on time) and being polite therefore making it quite inconceivable to the teacher that the quiet, intelligent, well-behaved and lonely boy who always paid attention in class would even consider trying to copy another child's work. In fact, Tom paid very little attention in class (the information given on the first day, he'd found, was repeated in a new form the next four days and the facts were stretched to cover hours when they could have been covered in minutes …and frankly Tom didn't think much of their 'important information' was of any use anyway) and merely made sure he _looked_ like he was paying attention. The fact that he was intelligent enough to get reasonably high marks without bothering to study did not, however, mean that Samuel's allegations were true. It wasn't that Tom had moral or ethical objections to cheating – at least where such dull and useless subject matter was concerned – it was just that he had long since concluded that the effort he would have to put in to gain access to other student's answers and disguise them as his own would be doubly wasted, since he was far smarter than his classmates anyway and there was quite literally no point in doing it.

"I'm talking to you!" Samuel exclaimed, almost directly into Tom's ear.

Tom started violently, he had been so busy trying to look small and unnoticeable (and mulling over how utterly stupid the adults could be at times) that he had completely failed to notice the older boy moving up behind him.

"Have you been crying?" one of Samuel's friends – either Thomas something or something Thomas, Tom couldn't recall which (they didn't interact often and the name was so very dull that Tom couldn't be bothered remembering it; he preferred interesting sounding names like 'Moriarty', 'Sebastian' and 'Captain Nemo') – asked, leaning over the table where Tom was trying to eat.

"No," Tom replied, his tone a little too forceful to be believed, as he stabbed at his half-finished dinner with his fork (the majority of the children through more of their meal than he, as he had arrived late).

"You have!" Samuel crowed, his eyes alight with what an adult might have termed an 'unholy glee' but which Tom knew as the 'he is going to say mean things to me again' look.

Tom gritted his teeth and hissed between them, "Is that a problem?" in a tone which strongly suggested that the question was actually not a question at all.

"Of course it is," Thomas Whatever exclaimed with undisguised malice in his face and voice.

In an act of bravery which no doubt surprised the bullies, Tom calmly skewered several peas (which were still round, but had gone squishy – if that was even a word – in some places, reminding Tom of a partially squishy head which he vaguely recalled in the back of his mind; although he did not know from where) and said, in a most blankly polite tone, "Then it is my problem – and no_t_ yours."

"Oh, but _Tommy_, we're just trying to _help_!" Sammy crooned saccharinely. "After all, _boys_ aren't supposed to cry – and we wouldn't want anyone to think you were a girl…"

"Or a baby," Whatever Thomas added, his tone similar.

Tom slammed his cutlery down and stood, ignoring the fact that his meal was half-finished. He was trembling from head to toe. "Leave. Me_. Alone_," he told them, his voice betraying that he had only barely restrained himself from shouting at them.

"What exactly is going on here?"

All three boys froze in place before turning to look up at the, clearly displeased, matron's face.

"Nothing, Ma'am," Tom told her; his tone surprisingly even. "I was just leaving."

Mrs. Cole frowned down at him. "You haven't finished eating, Tom," she said, with a note of concern clear in her voice.

"I'm not hungry," Tom replied. Then, with a slight sneer (meant for the bullies), he added, "I've lost my appetite."

The matron frowned. "Young man," she stated, "I do hope you realise that there are a great deal of people – including children like yourself – who are starving on the streets at this very moment and would give anything for a bit of what you are turning your nose up at!"

Tom's expression darkened. "Then take it outside and give it to them."

A flush of vexation and barely constrained fury crossed the matron's pale cheeks. "Mister Riddle, Sit down!" she ordered, quite crossly, and her left arm jerked outward as she pointed to the remains of his dinner. "You are not leaving this table until you have eaten everything on your plate!"

The faux-innocent, wide-eyed, look he gave her probably added just as much to her ire as his next comment. "Oh, I'm sorry," Tom told her, his wry amusement bleeding slightly into his overly innocent and falsely-apologetic tone, "but I don't eat cutlery." Then, as Mrs. Cole gapped at him in stupid astonishment, he ducked under her arm and bolted for the door.

"Oh, look!" Samuel's cohort called as Tom ran. "The baby's having a tantrum!"

"THOMAS JENKINS!" Tom heard the matron shriek angrily as the door of the dining hall swung closed behind him.

_Oh, so_ that's _his name._

* * *

Amy Benson was confused. She had been sitting at the table – and watching the big boys arguing one table over, until Mrs. Cole had gotten cross with them – fiddling with her new toy (which she'd kept hidden under the table, because otherwise Tommy would be angry and steal it, like he'd tried to earlier) when all of a sudden the two boys still with the matron had decided to fly across the room and hit the far wall. It was all very confusing. Amy couldn't understand why the boys would want to fly into the wall, but she thought that maybe it was just a difference between boys and girls – Miss Mary had told her about those, when one of the very little boys had decided to take off all his clothes and she'd spotted the sausage shaped bit between his legs. Yet Miss Mary had also spanked her today for finding a new toy, so Amy didn't want to think about her.

Amy was not, however, entirely sure about her conclusion; because after the boys had hit the wall there had been an awful lot of screaming and Mrs. Cole had started calling for the scary doctor lady (Amy vaguely recalled the woman as having been nice a long time ago, but she couldn't recall when). The doctor lady had appeared soon after – looking very cross – with her big black bag and had started fixing the boys' owies …at least, Amy presumed that was what she was doing, but she wasn't entirely sure, since the doctor lady had forcibly repositioned Sammy Chase's shoulder and he had screamed very loudly when she did (although doctor lady had replied by saying that he was an 'infant', which Amy was fairly certain meant the same as 'baby'). It had looked a bit strange before that, though.

As soon as the doctor lady had finished hurting the two boys, she and Mrs. Cole had hurried them out of the room. Amy was fairly certain she'd heard the matron complaining about 'riddles' as she passed Amy's table, which was somewhat odd, but the doctor lady had clearly understood what she meant because she had loudly insisted that 'he' wasn't even in the room at the time and therefore Amy figured that it must be some sort of adult thing which made sense to them.

After the adults and the sore boys had left, Amy looked under the table and twirled her half-stick again. Pretty white sparkles dribbled from the broken end and the long crack along its side.

* * *

It was nearly eleven at night by the time Doctor Elder had her patients as healed as immediately possible and settled into their beds – and had dealt with a matron who stubbornly insisted that the circumstantial evidence of Tom being bullied moments before the boys were hurt was concrete proof that he was responsible. Finally, however, both patients (Samuel Chase: dislocated shoulder, mild concussion, bruising, Thomas Jenkins: broken nose, potential fracture of – and certain bruising around – the Iliac Crest) were asleep in infirmary beds and she could afford to be away from her charges for a few minutes. Quietly, Martha made her way from the infirmary into Tom's room, holding her old-fashioned paraffin lamp (lit, as she had turned off the lights in the infirmary to help her patients sleep and she saw no light shining out from underneath his door) in one hand.

Tom was curled up on top of his bed, still dressed, and had clearly been weeping in near silence for quite some time. His face flushed when he saw her.

Martha stood in the doorway, somewhat at a loss for what to do as she was not – by nature – a particularly sympathetic or emotional person. "Why, precisely, are you crying?" she inquired, although she was acutely aware that the words did not sound correct for the situation she did know how to make them more suitable.

Tom sniffled. "B-boy's aren't sup-supposed to c-cry," he choked out, although this was clearly not an actual answer to her question.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," she said, "and women are not supposed to be doctors."

Tom's face (in spite of the mucus, tearstains, puffiness and the blanket-clutching hands partially obscuring it) lit up a little as he smiled at her, with his cute little teeth showing a bit.

* * *

**To Anonymous:** Thank you.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** Why would I mind you shortening it? I'm quite aware that it's a mouthful. I'm glad to hear that my writing continues to be creepy and surprising. I'm also glad to know that the story comes across as somewhat chilling (and why would I be insulted, by the way?). I have to admit you're last comment made me laugh: I did that as a child too.

**To Gabriel:** Then it might amuse you to know that I always feel like I'm repeating myself when I reply to reviews – on more than one occasion I've spent a good ten to fifteen minutes glaring at my thesauri and wishing they had more options for 'pleased', 'glad' and 'thank you'. In this case, for instance, words have failed me and I feel like this reply is doomed to be insufficient in comparison (and with regard) to the detail and specificity of your comments.

To answer your question, which I assure you is in no way rude, I majored in Classics at university and quite a bit of my planned historical fiction focuses on the eras that particular field of study covers (which is actually something like a couple of hundred AD all the way back to two thousand something BC …I still use the old abbreviations: less letters to get muddled). However, as this entire story probably suggests, I'm also very fond of the late eighteen and early nineteen hundreds, so there's a good chance of more 'recent' historical fiction as well – although, admittedly, a great deal of the historically focused works I want to write include elements of sci-fi (a time travel series about researchers trying to fit in in the ancient past without screwing anything up) and fantasy (because the Greek myths did include reincarnation), both of which double as plot devices and ways to help readers understand the extremely different points of view and ways of thinking that were held the further back in time you go.

I hope you found this chapter as pleasing as the last – and that you find the next equally pleasing.

**To Hiei's Cute Girl:** You don't have to be ecstatic, I would feel I had been impolite if I didn't respond (especially to people who want me to know how much they're enjoying my work). I'm glad to know the little differences between Tom and the others are beginning to be somewhat noticeable, although I wouldn't necessarily attach the term 'purity' to socially normal children myself (Sammy and his friend, in this chapter, are after all 'normal' children: and they tease 'weird' children until those children cry). Well, the thing about Tom reacting to his mother's solution – something which you probably noticed was conspicuously absent in this chapter – is that Merope is hardly going to tell her six-year-and-nine-months old son, who is already scared of her, that she killed someone he'd taken into his confidence and trusted. Moreover, she made it look like he died from exposure overnight and he was an old man: no one has any good reason to suspect foul play. And you're most welcome.

**To Shebali: **Firstly, I hope you kept reading long enough to actually reach this reply. I'm glad to know you're enjoying the story (and don't worry about trying to write grand-length elegant reviews: you've probably noticed by now that I tend to stumble my way through my replies to them anyway) and that you're enjoying the fact finders so much. I do hope you continue to enjoy the story.


	37. But Names Will Never Hurt Me, Jan 1 1934

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

…**But Names Will Never Hurt Me**

It was shortly after midnight when a soft – at least, somewhat soft – knock sounded at Tom's door.

Tom, himself, sat partially up in bed – with one of his hands clasping his covers loosely, as if he intended to throw his covers over his head for safety at the first sign of danger – and called out, "Who is it?"

"The footprint of a gia-gigantic hound!" the little voice on the other side of the door exclaimed.

Doctor Elder, who was sitting at her desk in the infirmary and who had heard the entire conversation, snorted. It was evident to her that Tom and Dennis had successfully grasped the concept of using code-words for secret meetings, but had completely failed to grasp the fact that secret meetings at night usually involved some amount of sneaking about …and sneaking about was something that really ought to be done_ quietly_. Nevertheless, she had more important things to think about that night – namely her patients – and therefore left the two younger boys alone.

Unaware that the conversation had been overheard, Tom sat up properly in his bed and called out, "Come in!"

A moment later the door handle turned and Dennis peered into the dark room. After his eyes had adjusted, for there was even less light in Tom's room than in the corridor, the younger boy entered and closed the door behind him (and unfortunately without consideration to the noise level, which would have been more unfortunate if he had not already been overheard).

Once Dennis had seated himself on the bed next to Tom (cross-legged and fully on the bed facing toward its head just as Tom faced its end – which was only natural, as he had been attempting to sleep in it), and after a great deal of fumbling in the dark, he successfully handed half a stick over to his friend with an unceremonious, "Here!"

Tom's fingers closed clumsily around the old wood in his hand. "Is this… mine?" he asked, somewhat baffled.

"Amy doesn't know I've got it!" Dennis replied: clearly very proud of his accomplishment. Then he gave his friend a very serious (and completely unnoticed – due to the lack of light) look and added, "You should write your name on it, so everyone knows it's yours."

Tom snorted. "How?" he asked, derisively. "Practic'ly _everyone's_ named Tom."

Dennis looked at him – or, rather, what he could see of him – in bafflement. "And?" he asked.

"And it's a stupid name," Tom replied, annoyed and vaguely exasperated by his less intelligent and younger friend's innocent comment. He then scowled, vaguely in the direction of the stick in his hand, and muttered, "I wish I wasn't named Tom. I wish I didn't always have to say _which_ Tom I am."

In the darkness, Dennis nodded. "And now the truth," he stated, in a surprisingly firm tone.

Tom's head jerked up and he stared at where Dennis most likely was with no small amount of incredulity.

Although he could not see his friend's face very well, barely at all; in fact, Dennis seemed to understand the reaction he had been given for he shrugged slightly and extrapolated: "You could fool most people with that, but I've known you a looooooong time. Martha calls you a bold-faced liar. So now the truth."

There was something in the straightforward as self-assured tone of Dennis' comment – if it could be called that rather than a demand – that made Tom's eyes narrow. Perhaps it was the bluntness of the assertion, perhaps that the younger boy had failed to recognise the hint and drop the subject, but it rubbed Tom the wrong way and, although his voice started low, he lashed out at his companion with an unexpected viciousness of attitude. "How would you feel if you were named after someone who didn't want you?" he whispered harshly.

After a moment's pause, Tom continued, his voice growing steadily louder as he did. "She named me after _him._ She was only thinking of _him_. It was _always him_. SHE DIDN'T WANT _ME_!"

The last word was practically screamed. For a few moments there was no sound in the room other than Tom's harsh and heavy breathing. Finally, he looked away from his friend and turned so that he was sitting on the edge of his bed and staring (in a disconcertingly blank way) into the darkness where the opposite wall most likely was. Quietly, he mumbled, "I was just an exten-exten… a bit more of him, to her. I wasn't even worth a _name_ of my own."

Hesitantly, as he was uncertain how to respond to this, Dennis reached out to pat his friend on the head. After a few failed attempts, as he misjudged the distance and height several times, he succeeded. However, this did very little to improve his friend's depressive mood.

In a quiet, distant, tone directed more at himself than his companion, Tom added, "Martha does it too." After a moment, in which he realised that Dennis had most likely _not _followed the unspoken part of his train of thought, he hurriedly said, "Sees someone else where I am, I mean. My mother gave me his name and wanted me to look like him – almost like she was… was… trying to make _another him!_"

Dennis made a soothing noise, which was promptly – and, perhaps, unintentionally – ignored.

"Tha just looks at my face and my name and sees her brother," Tom murmured, almost completely unaware of his audience. "It's like I'm invisible."

Dennis, quite at a loss for what else to do to comfort the older boy, leaned over and wrapped his friend in a tight hug.

Silently, without ceasing to stare somewhat blankly at the wall across from him, Tom allowed one of his arms to tug Dennis just a little bit closer. They remained like that, quiet and still in the darkness, for a very long time. At last, however, they slide slowly down onto the bed – on top of the covers – and, still tangled in each others' limbs, they slept.

* * *

"It happened! You can't just ignore it!"

Tom and Dennis jerked up at once, turning to look – wide eyed – at the wall, infirmary-side, through which the exclamation had come.

"I don't see why not," a cold, ironical voice – which could only belong to Doctor Elder – replied. "You do it all the time."

"Could you leave your ridiculous politics out of this for _once_,_** please**_!" Mary shrieked in reply. "They were lifted up _by nothing_ and_ flew into the wall_!"

Tom and Dennis turned to give each other wide eyed looks before turning, in unison, back to the wall.

"Mary, dear," the doctor saccharinely inquired, "since you're so fond of telling people why they are going to end up there, why don't you _go to hell_ and look over the scenery for us?"

"MARTHA!" two voices shrieked at once.

Tom and Dennis glanced at each other and attempted to stifle giggles. Luckily for them – as they had been rather unsuccessful in regard to staying quiet – the sound of someone stomping their way out of the infirmary kept any sounds the boys _had_ made from being overheard by the adults on the other side of the wall.

"That was rude," the matron, who was clearly the third adult in the infirmary, said. Then, more forcefully, she added, "Even for you, Martha, that was rude."

There was a pause, in which it was highly likely that the doctor pinned the matron with a highly sceptical look (one which, as Tom imagined from his own experience, most likely involved a raised eyebrow).

"I am a doctor," said the doctor, coldly, and there was something bitterly cruel about her tone. "I am not employed to explain mysteries, nor to give you advice, nor to be nice …yet for _some reason_ you all seem to think my infirmary is the right place to yell about your problems." There was another minute pause before the doctor continued; her tone sharper and sterner than it had been before, "I am not here to council you on demons or whatever else she thinks is going on."

Tom frowned at the wall, as he was beginning to suspect that he was the topic of the conversation.

"I think we both know what is going on," Mrs. Cole replied sharply, unknowingly confirming Tom's suspicions as she did. "It was _that boy_ that did it."

"No," Doctor Elder stated mildly.

Tom pressed his ear against the wall, attempting to hear the conversation more clearly.

"No?" the matron repeated, her voice growing louder with clear incredulity.

Dennis decided to follow his friend's example and pressed an ear against the wall.

"There is no evidence," the doctor continued mildly (from the sound of things she was standing right next to the wall).

Mrs. Cole was most likely further from the wall – or so Tom had judged by the fact that her quieter statements were nearly inaudible – but the volume of her response was so great that Tom actually pulled away from the wall with a wince.

"NO EVIDENCE?" the matron cried. "He's the only one who _can_ do it! What need is there for evidence?"

Tom rubbed his ear sympathetically because of the pitch of the matron's final, rhetorical, question.

Despite the fact that the walls were thick, the doctor's cold – quiet – voice carried quite well. "He has yet to succeed in 'doing things' when more than one or two away and in direct line of sight," she stated. "It is_ illogical_ to assume he has suddenly developed the ability to use great force from half way down a corridor and _through a __**shut door**_."

"You are being_ impossible_ today!" Mrs. Cole snapped before she, like Mary before her, stormed from the room.

The doctor's dry, ironical, reply never actually reached the ears of the fuming matron, although Tom and Dennis heard it quite distinctly; "Unlike my patients, _I_ haven't slept."

Tom considered this statement for a moment, then leapt from his bed, pulled half of his stick out from beneath his pillow and – with both halves of the stick clutched tightly in his right hand – climbed through his wardrobe and into the infirmary. He was gone so quickly that Dennis was left sitting on Tom's bed, wondering what had just happened.

"Tha!" Tom yelped, bounding over to the doctor. "Tha, I have a patient!"

The doctor turned to him, one eyebrow raised in bemusement.

Tom held out the two halves of the stick. "It needs healing," he explained.

An extraordinarily strange expression – something between disbelief and amusement, which incorporated both a deep frown and a slight twitch of the lips – crossed the doctor's face.

"Doctor's like healing things," Tom added, "that's why they become doctors."

It was in that moment that Martha realised that Tom, in his own somewhat haphazard fashion, was actually trying to cheer her up. She blinked at him for a moment and, although the strange expression did not lift from her face, she spoke. "There is a roll of masking tape in the top drawer of my desk."

Tom nodded eagerly and bounded over to the desk in question. Martha followed him at a somewhat more sedate pace, still clearly rather flummoxed, and sat down at her desk to examine her new 'patient'. As little boys are wont to do, though, Tom quickly became bored of watching her work.

"Tha," Tom said. "Tha, there's a letter on your desk."

"I am aware of that," Martha replied as she held up one half of the stick to examine the break.

"I can't read it," Tom added somewhat petulantly, as if this should have been obvious from his earlier statement.

"Good," the doctor replied, mentally noting that the thin white thread would have to be knotted together to form a single piece again and still fit inside the hollowed out part of the stick. "You're not supposed to read other people's mail."

"I'm a good reader," Tom replied stubbornly.

Martha opened a small drawer on her desk and removed several fine tools from it. "Yes, you are," she agreed with faint amusement.

"I can't understand it!" Tom whined.

Without taking her attention away from the thread she was carefully removing from the thinner half of the stick, Martha wryly said, "That would be because it isn't in English."

"What does it say?" Tom asked, curiously.

The doctor's face blanked. The letter said that her cousin Greet had been beaten to death in an act of street violence in Berlin. It said that her attacker had claimed he didn't think anyone would be bothered by it because she was 'just a Jew' …and between the lines it said he was going to get away with it, because his was the popular opinion.

"I don't want to talk about it," the doctor stated, somewhat hoarsely, still staring at the fine white thread she had been in the process of reinserting into the wood (half by half and with a needle to get it through).

Tom went quiet for a moment and Martha returned to her work in a far more serious mood. She ignored the odd ripping sounds coming from her left, where Tom was sitting on her desk, as she finished putting the thread through the second half of the stick, before turning to Tom to see what he could possibly be doing to make that sort of sound.

…the boy's face was half covered in masking tape; which he had actually placed completely over his eyes.

Martha was actually stunned into silence for a moment. However, it was only for a moment. "_Wha__**t**_are you _doing_?" she inquired, with both bafflement and a sort of wearied exasperation in her tone.

Tom smiled brightly at her. "Mask-ing tape!" he exclaimed proudly, raising his arms in a sort of wide-armed shrug as he did. An instant later he yelped in pain as the doctor ripped it off him.

"You're not supposed to put it on your face you little idiot!" she exclaimed, although there was a note of somewhat horrified amusement behind the exasperation in her tone.

Tom smiled up at her. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, he did know that he was short on common sense sometimes…

"Brat," Martha muttered as she began to use the masking tape to hold the two pieces of the stick together.

...but at least the doctor was sort-of-not-quite-but-almost smiling again.

* * *

**To Shebali:** I suppose that means real life got in the way? I'm glad to know you've continued to enjoy the story. I would never abandon something I've put this much effort into – although I think I ought to point out one smaller note from my profile: don't be too quick to re-read, since there will be sequels afterward (albeit with a hiatus before I continue with the next one).


	38. Tom the Evil Pirate: Mar 21 June 30 '34

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N: **I want to take a moment to thank the wonderful Shebali - who absolutely made my year by putting up a recommendation for this story on the TV Tropes General Harry Potter Fanfic Recs page.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Tom the Evil Pirate**

It was on March twenty-first, a Wednesday, that Dennis Bishop discovered the joys of piracy. That is not so much to say that he actually went about stealing things (in fact, the closest he had ever come to any sort of boat or ship had been looking – from a great distance – at those on the Thames). It was more that he had been somewhat inspired by listening to Tom stumble through reading a story about pirates to him and was becoming rather tired of playing 'detectives' all the time.

However, Tom had been somewhat less than thrilled by the idea of pretending to be pirates (somewhere in the back of his mind he was certain that pirates had long whitish hair and wore dresses, but he wasn't entirely sure why and therefore never mentioned it). This had almost resulted in the sort of row that was oft heard and seen between little boys, but as Tom had only finished reading _Treasure Island_ to Dennis just before breakfast the potential row had been averted. Nevertheless, this had also meant that Tom had put his time in school to better use than usual – usual being the days he actually paid attention to the things that weren't very interesting instead of merely completing his assignments and wondering whether or not the other children were passing rude notes about him again – and had started planning how to convince Dennis that pirates just weren't as interesting as detectives. Eventually he concluded that pirates – being thieves – were supposed to be 'bad people' and Miss Mary was very strict about being good, so he would just take Dennis to Miss Mary and get her to do the actual explaining and convincing part.

After dinner Tom and Dennis had gone in search of Miss Mary (hand in hand, no less, which the older orphans thought was 'cute' and which the young orphans would later use to mock them both) and found her in the infirmary – where she was attempting to avoid Martha's spoonful of cough syrup and repeatedly insisting that her wards needed her and that she didn't have_ time_ to be ill. The doctor, unsurprisingly, wasn't having any of it.

Tom, momentarily distracted from his purpose by the scene before him, politely and innocently inquired, "May I have some?"

Mary opened her mouth to say something – most likely to inquire if he was ill – and, in her usual blunt and efficient manner, Doctor Elder shoved the filled spoon into her colleague's open mouth. Instinctively, Mary shut her mouth.

"Swallow," the doctor ordered.

Reluctantly, Mary did.

Once she had pulled the spoon, somewhat roughly, out of her patient's mouth, Martha turned to look down at the pair of little boys. "You most certainly may not," she told Tom. "A good cough syrup like this is expensive – and I shan't have you trying to break into my stores to have a sip of it every night."

Tom took this answer in stride, perhaps because the question had been a mere impulse of the moment, and pulled Dennis over to Mary with him. Once they were facing her, Tom very seriously said, "Tell him pirates aren't as good."

Mary made a surprised little choking noise. "What?" she asked after a few moments, still just as flummoxed as when she had first heard the question.

Tom gave the sort of tiny sigh (and accompanying eye-roll) typical of children who are in the middle of dealing with a less-than-intelligent adult. "Tell him that pirates aren't as good as detectives," he stated.

"Always play detectives," Dennis muttered mutinously. "I want to be a pirate."

Mary looked between the two boys for a moment, then sank down so that she was sitting on her lower legs and almost at equal eye-level to them (and ignoring Martha's sarcastically sweet and somewhat nasal mutter of "Oh, look, it's story time," in the background as the doctor put away the bottle of cough syrup).

"Dennis, why in Heaven's name would you want to be a pirate?" Mary asked. "Pirates were horrible, vicious, dirty people who were completely at the mercy of their captains' cruel decisions."

"Actually," Martha interjected as she returned from locking the bottle of medicine back in the appropriate cabinet, "pirate ships were the first place democracy was re-established after the fall of the Roman Republic."

Mary turned her head to stare at the doctor in shock. "Martha!" she exclaimed. "Where do you think you get the right to go about putting such ungodly ideas into children's heads?"

"I had no idea that you Christians considered the _truth_ to be ungodly," the doctor replied coolly. "Perhaps I ought not to have been surprised."

Mary shook her head. "Democratic pirates!" she said. "It's absurd!"

"It was only in their major and not particularly urgent decisions. Besides, I don't see why you are so offended," Martha stated. "It is hardly a flawless system."

"So speaks the suffragette," Mary said coldly.

Tom frowned at them. "What's dem-democ …thing?" he inquired.

"A stupid idea which makes the fools of the world think they are right all the time simply because there are more of them," Martha said in disgust.

Mary glanced at her with faint, and resigned, annoyance and mildly said, "It's a miracle you've managed to teach him anything." Then she turned back to the two little boys, with and expression somewhere between a wince and a gentle smile, and told Tom, "It's a bit hard for children your age to understand. When you're older–"

"I am no_t_ most children my age," Tom interrupted bluntly, his cold tone betraying the fact that he could become quite heatedly angry at any moment's notice.

Martha leaned over slightly to murmur in her colleague's ear, "Child and simpleton are not mutually inclusive," before carrying on to her desk and leaning against it (presumably to watch Mary struggle through a satisfactory explanation).

Mary, however, turned to watch her as she went. "They aren't small adults either!" she snapped. "You can't go about saying whatever you please to them and expect them to understand!" Unfortunately, whatever she had intended to say next was made incomprehensible by a bout of harsh coughing.

The doctor immediately stiffened at her desk, frowning, and seemingly a mere moment later was at her colleague's side with a glass of water – which she pressed firmly into Mary's hand and helped her to drink from.

"You work too hard," Doctor Elder said calmly. "That is why the flu has made you so poorly this time. You need to rest."

Mary shook her head weakly. "My charges need me," she objected, although her voice was hoarse from all the coughing.

"Then we shall have to move them all in here so that you may alternately sleep and amuse yourself by watching me struggle to chase them away from my scalpels," the doctor replied, although in reality she kept all her more dangerous and fragile medical items – both tools and medicine – safely under lock and key.

Tom patted the ill woman gently on the shoulder, but Dennis failed to recognise that the time was not right for such things and pressed the question. "What's a demo-thing?"

Mary glanced at the doctor.

"The floor is yours," Martha replied with a raised eyebrow and a faint smirk.

Mary glanced between the two children, looking somewhat lost as she searched for a place to begin her explanation. "Democracy," she said finally, "is a system of government … that's a–"

"I know what a government is," Tom told her, annoyed.

"Right," Mary replied, trying to smile in spite of how taken aback she was.

Dennis looked between the two of them in confusion.

"Well," Mary continued, looking rather lost, "in democracy everyone has an equal say in big decisions – except bad people, who aren't allowed to have a say anymore because they've been bad–"

"Unless they haven't been caught," Martha interjected coolly.

Mary winced but continued, "And children, who are too young to really understand everything–"

"And women, until recently" Martha cut in again, "because we were apparently too stupid to make a mess of things as efficiently as men."

Mary cast her a quick glare, but otherwise ignored the interruptions. "So," she said. After a pause, she tried again, "There are too many people for our government to ask everyone for their opinion and make decisions based on that for everything that happens."

Again Mary paused; noting with bemusement that while Dennis was clearly lost, Tom appeared to be following her explanation with little to no trouble.

"So… they choose people?" Tom replied – although it was something between a statement and a question. "Like the king?"

"Ah," Mary said, "no, Tom. The Royal Family stand above the democratic system. More like the Prime Minister."

Tom gave her a blank look that proved that he, in spite of how well he had grasped the concept so far, had limits to his extensive knowledge.

"Ramsay MacDonald," Martha extrapolated for the boy. "I complain about him on occasion."

Tom shrugged at her, his mind clearly elsewhere, and immediately rounded on Mary – some thought obviously causing him to focus in an oddly mature manner. "So," he said, "everyone says who they want to be boss."

"It's called voting," Mary said gently, rubbing her throat absently as she did. "They're given a list of options or are told to say yes or no and whichever option has the most votes is what happens and who gets chosen."

Tom frowned at her. "Then," he replied slowly, as if he was thinking aloud, "if… if my class have a demo-thing and Sammy and Charlie and Jamie and all their friends say they want Sammy to be boss…"

"Yes," Mary asked as encouragingly as possible, although she was still somewhat stunned by the idea that the boy was actually following her explanation.

"…And Sammy says that it's good to throw me out the window like they've been saying they would," Tom continued, "then that's good because …because _they all wan__**t to**__?"_ His sentence, question really, ended as a sort of panicked and horrified exclamation.

"Yes," said Martha bluntly, while Mary gapped at him in horror.

"Tom," Mary choked out. "Tom, have they actually been threatening to _throw you out a window?_"

"Yes," Tom told her in a matter-of-fact sort of tone that seemed to imply this was something quite normal and ordinary. "That's a stupid system," he then stated, referring to what he had learned.

Mary turned to Martha with a horrified and somewhat helpless expression on her face.

"Don't look to me for help," the doctor replied. "I agree with the boy."

"Democracy is not a bad thing," Mary said, still somewhat shaken by Tom's causal reference to the threats against him. "It's important."

"If it's good and important," Tom inquired, tugging on her sleeve as he did, "why do we need a king?"

Martha, who had returned to leaning on her desk, raised a hand in a vague and sarcastic manner as Mary turned to look at her for help. "I second the question," the doctor stated.

"It's traditional!" Mary exclaimed.

"So is a good leeching for hys_t_eri_a_," Martha replied. "Do you need one?"

"You, no doubt, would prefer an autocracy," Mary sniffed.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, as if surprised that her colleague knew not only the word but accurately (if, indubitably, for the wrong reasons) what her preference would be, but calmly and firmly stated, "Better absolute rule by one competent person than the temporarily favoured fools fawned on by the equally mediocre and incompetent masses who believe they are right simply because of strength in numbers."

Mary sniffed again. "I suppose you would very much like to _be_ that ruler."

The doctor responded immediately, and decisively, "I would no_t_. No good ruler wants power: they want what is best for their people." There was a seriousness in her tone that made it quite clear that she was absolutely certain of everything she had said and that she in no way took it lightly.

By this point Tom had also become quite baffled by the, increasingly adult, conversation.

Mary opened her mouth to speak again, but her cough chose an unpleasant moment to return and her shoulders shook with the force of it as she struggled to move the glass of water to her lips without spilling from it or dropping it.

"It's a shame we aren't going to Dover for another three months," Martha stated, albeit somewhat drily. "The sea air would do that cough of yours some good."

"Dover?" Tom asked curiously.

"In Kent," Mary explained, "for our summer outing this year. It's by the seaside." Then she clapped her hands against her upper legs and shrugged excitedly at them, in the way adults often do when they are attempting to enthuse small children about some subject or other and have unintentionally gone past the 'excited' mark and far into 'accidentally saccharine over-zealousness'. "Shan't that be fun?"

Tom fixed her with the blank, condescending and mildly unnerving expression – found amongst all children and especially amongst young adults – which somehow managed to convey the sentiment 'I am neither a simpleton nor an infant, you buffoon, so if you _really_ expect me to be anything other than insulted and bored by your condescending over-enthusiastic and blatantly moronic behaviour then you are, in fact, far less intelligent than I thought you were' with barely any effort.

However, moments after Mary had realised that Tom's expression was one of intense scepticism rather one of excitement or joy, Dennis reached a conclusion (namely that 'by the sea' was very close to 'on the sea') and turned his head to look at his friend with a smug smile.

"Pirates," he said.

* * *

Approximately three months had passed since Dennis had discovered piracy, and lunch on June the thirtieth – a Saturday – had taken place in Dover and had mainly consisted of some form of complex 'naval battle' (involving, oddly, pirate sandwiches fighting over buried detectives) as controlled by Tom and Dennis. Doctor Elder was, most resolutely, not asking.

Lucy Blackwood smiled at the thought as she added the finishing touches to her rough sketch of the scene (there was something challenging about capturing the look in Martha's eyes and even in a rough sketch she found that she took extra time on it).

Sir Blackwood shook his head, with an amused and fond smile, then reached over the head of one of the younger orphans to brush a wild lock of black hair away from his wife's face (half-obscured by her large sketchbook though it was). There was, after all, a very good chance that she would not notice it until after she had accidentally drawn a large smudge across her cheek. She certainly did so often enough.

A few moments later, however, Lucy was distracted as the youngest of the four Blackwoods (baby Freddie) began to fuss – Sir Blackwood presumed it was because the orphan who had been playing with him, a four or such year old named Amy, had wandered off moments before; apparently upset that Tom and Dennis were moving slowly further and further from the others as they played. This, Sir Blackwood had earlier been informed, was apparently normal behaviour for the friendly and outgoing little girl – who seemed to have been born with the instinct of the sheepdog: to keep her group together.

Sir John shook his head in faint amusement as Lucy tended to their youngest. He then carefully reached over and picked up her sketchbook. Unnoticed by all, Tom and Dennis disappeared from view with Amy following after them. Ironically, the lack of attention on Sir Blackwood's part came from his interest in the Tom of some five or six hours past – whose image had been loving transfixed to the previous page (the one Lucy had been working on contained a sketch of the 'great sandwich war' and a rendering of Eleanor Cole's face …a rendering which revealed the lines worry and concern were slowly etching into her face, in spite of her youth) as he had sat before lunch: under a tree with Doctor Elder, both their attention fixed on the Latin Grammar before the boy. The image had Lucy's signature scrawled in one corner, along with a title: _The Doctor, the Boy and the Study of the Third Declension. _

The orphanage's patron smiled wryly and shook his head again. His wife, for all her kindness (both in that she insisted in continuing to give art lessons for the orphans every second Saturday and that every year she insisted on making a simple sketched portrait of every orphan so that they would have something of their youth when they left – and both out of her, or rather: his, own pocket) was not gifted in the matter of words.

Sir Blackwood turned back over the last few pages – mostly rough doodles of the children at play, many of which had been 'aided' by one or more of the orphans – to an image of Simon Hughes' animated expression as he retold the story of how little Tom had come to be learning Latin at all. It had been quite the story, he recalled, starting with the donation (by many of his esteemed friends) of books to the orphanage. The matron had surprised Sir John by requesting that glass fronted shelves with locks – such as those found in many stores – be acquired so that there could be no hoarding of the books by any one child. She had called it a 'library system' and it required the children to go through a staff member to take a book out …and resulted in extra chores if they kept it longer than they ought. It had been a stroke of genius on the matron's part – but within a week of its implementation, Tom had been caught attempting to pick the lock of the shelf containing the most mature books. Naturally, Mrs. Cole had been furious (just as she was at the rather ridiculous 'impression' of her anger performed by the cook) and it had eventually been decided that what the boy needed to keep him out of trouble was a proper challenge. Thus, in early April, the strange triumvirate of Helen, Jonathan and Martha had taken it upon themselves to teach the boy Latin. Tom had been extremely reluctant; until he had realised that it would not be as easy as he expected – at which point he had been quite enthralled by the idea.

"Is that my sketchbook?"

Sir John, startled out of his musings, turned to his wife with a sheepish expression and held out the book in question.

* * *

Tom and Dennis laughed as they chased each other, neither avoiding the cliff's edge as much as common sense and self preservation would make advisable. This was, however, perhaps quite understandable; as little boys are oft wont to do things which would make any safety-conscious adult cringe.

"HA!" Dennis cried, darting forward with an imaginary sword.

Tom parried. "HA!" he replied triumphantly.

Dennis then pulled out a pistol and shot Tom through the heart. This was, of course, just as imaginary as the swords and the ship upon which they had been fighting.

Tom crumpled to the ground dramatically, one hand clutching the imaginary hole in his chest. "Alack!" he exclaimed as he stared up at the sky. "I am slain by the dread pirate Grassbeard!"

"Dennis," said Dennis.

On the ground, Tom lifted himself somewhat upright with his elbows and shrugged at the interruption to his dramatic death. He then continued his speech with the revision, "The dread pirate Dennis! Comfort only that good Watson has escaped!"

"Ha-ha!" Dennis retorted, pulling a mask – imaginary – away from his face. "_I_ am your Doctor Watson, fool!"

Tom paused, considering this. Then he gave a dramatic wail of "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" and collapsed back onto the ground, with his eyes closed, unmoving.

"What are you _doing_?" Amy asked, having finally caught up to the boys.

"I am being dead," Tom told her from where he lay, without bothering to open his eyes.

"Dead people don't move," Dennis pointed out practically. Then to Amy he added, "We're being pirates."

"And detectives!" cried Tom the 'dead'.

"I want to play!" Amy insisted immediately.

"No!" Dennis snapped. "Pirates and detectives is a _boys'_ game. No girls!"

Amy considered this for a moment, twisting a lock of her blond hair around her fingers as she did. Finally she concluded, "Then we play princesses!"

The two boys jerked around (and, in Tom's case, upright) to stare at her with matching expressions of undisguised horror. After a long pause in which no one moved, Tom and Dennis – miraculously in unison – turned their heads to share a Look. It was the sort of look that deserved to be capitalized.

Finally, however, Tom's eyed narrowed with thought and he sprung to his feet. Before either of the other children could react, he dashed over to Amy and hoisted her up by the waist.

"Ha-ha!" Tom cried. "Fear me, fair princess! For I am the evil, democracy pirate Tom and I have come to kidnap you!"

Amy giggled, trying and failing to look appropriately terrified.

Dennis grinned delightedly, for clearly a new game was afoot. "Halt fiend!" he announced. "Fear not, Princess! I am the detective-knight Sir Dennis and I will rescue you!"

Amy giggled.

Tom, however, shook his head. "Never, Sir Knight!" he replied. "For I shall take the princess to my secret lair yonder," he continued, waving an arm in the general direction of the cliffs (as Dennis was on his other side and the secret lair could not very well be right next to the good knight or there would be no story), "and me and my pirate crew shall," he paused with dramatically 'evil' relish, "_**vote **_on what to do with her!"

Struck by a sudden thought, Tom then kneeled and – after a short bit of confusion as he tried to explain – convinced Amy to climb onto his back, with her arms looped around his neck and her legs squeezing slightly around his waist. He could not, after all, carry the four and a half year old in his arms or over his shoulder during her kidnapping – at only seven and a half (albeit somewhat tall for his age) he was too small to do it.

Dennis waited patiently for them to finish, then got on his horse and began to chase after them. However, they were running toward the cliff's edge and Tom – with Amy on his back –barely managed to skid to a halt before they could plummet over the edge and to the rocks below.

"Look," Amy exclaimed, pointing with one of her little hands.

Tom blinked and looked in the direction she was pointing. Across a stretch of water from the bottom of the cliff was another dry area …with the mouth of a small cave visible. Unimpressed, Tom shrugged.

"Secret lair!" Amy insisted.

Tom, finally beginning to understand what the little girl was trying to tell him, considered the cliff. It was not as steep where they stood as it was in most other places – although Tom was fairly certain that the fact could change, since Martha always said that rocks erode, whatever that was, over time – and Tom deemed it reasonably climbable.

Sir Dennis was closing on them with his white steed, so Tom cautiously crouched down and began to make his way down the side of the cliff.

"Ha-ha!" Tom called up to his friend. "You shall not catch me so easily, for my secret lair is near!"

"Help me!" Amy added, far too cheerfully for her character. "He's stealing me! Sir Dennis!"

Sir Dennis considered this, shrugged to his white mare, climbed off the horse and wandered over to the cliff's edge. After another moment's consideration, he cried "Fear not, Princess!" and began to climb down after them.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope to have the next chapter – _The Cave_ (yes, _that_ cave) – written and up soon. This should be relatively feasible, presuming that I do not fall ill again …or simply decide to be cruel.

**To swirlsandpendulums:** I'm glad to hear you've been enjoying what you read – and I sincerely hope you've continued to enjoy the story long enough to reach this response.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** Is it a bad thing that my brain keeps trying to add the word 'the' in between the 'Is' and the 'True' in your username? Actually, I quite like the name Continual Creepiness Curve (although the abbreviation CCC feels a bit too close to KKK for my taste – that's mainly because all three of those words have a hard C). The thing about Martha is that her advice and teachings could have sent Tom either way. It was the other things and people around him that caused Tom to grow up to be a dark lord rather than, say, a doctor. I'm glad you liked seeing Tom cheer Martha up – and that you think it was in character – and your right about the second thing as well. Any skilled manipulator (that's 50% percent of the world's population, by the way) can tell you that if you can't understand an emotion you can't manipulate it or a person who is feeling it.

**To Hiei's Cute Girl: **I consider reviews to be gifts – not something anyone has a right to – and for that reason there is nothing to forgive. I am sorry to hear you have been so busy, though, and I hope it is not causing you undue stress. I'm glad she frustrated you: it means she was realistic and believable. That makes more sense than the way I previously understood what you'd meant. You're quite right in that regard, although I only intend to have Tom truly starting to fracture in the later sequels. There's no need to thank me for responding – but do be sure not to do that peacocking as an albino: else I'll have to put you in Mister Malfoy's garden with the rest of the albino peacocks.

**To WITchY65:** I'm pleased to know you think so highly of my work. To answer your question …it's not so much a matter of coming up with the idea as it is one of choosing the best ideas and refining them – of taking every event and following through all it's logical and emotional consequences. However, it is also equally a matter of putting in effort. A story like this takes a huge amount of effort and time: I've spent literally hundreds of hours on research alone (for example: six hours of seeking information on the history and make of jam jars for mention in only one paragraph). Then there's the effort put into revisions: no matter how good the idea was, if I didn't have the time to repeatedly check the grammar, spelling, punctuation and capitalization – or to use full words instead of text speak – I would never have begun writing this story. Admittedly, neither my beta nor I can be perfect, but we do our best.


	39. The Cave: June 30th, 1934

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N: **Yes, I am evil – I made you wait quite a long time before I posted this. However, if my timing is right you should find this on or right before Halloween. As this is supposed to be one of the most disturbing, graphic and – for lack of a better term – Halloween-ish chapters in this entire story (albeit not in the entire series) it seemed only right. I also had my birthday to think about, after all.

Also, I think it is important to note – before you continue on to read this chapter – that Dumbledore is not always right. As he _stated in canon_ that he could easily be as wrong as the man who thought it was time for the creation of usable cheese cauldrons, it isn't actually divergent from canon to suggest that Dumbledore – who was going on information from Mrs. Cole (who _herself_ **didn't know** what happened and was making guesses and assumptions …that's third hand info, i.e. gossip, therefore, by the time it gets to Harry) – was wrong in this particular instance. This chapter also works on the hypothesis that Voldemort got his ideas for horcrux protections and cave decorations from somewhere.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Cave**

"It's wet," Amy stated morosely – if such an emotion truly can be attached to the statement of a four and a half year old – as the three children stood at the bottom of the tall cliffs and stared out at the water they would have to cross to reach the cave.

A particularly large wave smashed against the nearby rocks and sprayed them with water once again. All three children made faces which would have been quite amusing to any bystander – had there been any – as the cold water hit them.

Tom frowned thoughtfully. The part of the cliff they had climbed down jutted out from the rest of the mainland somewhat – it was the furthest forward edge of a cove, for the other forward part of the cliff was not quite so far out – and the stretch of water protected by the two further-out areas of cliff had become a somewhat calmer lagoon. The cave Amy had spotted was across a narrow stretch of the lagoon, roughly next to the point where the longer jutting out portion of the cliff came forward from the rest of the mainland. Unfortunately, Tom realised, none of the children knew how to swim. Naturally, therefore, he mentioned the problem.

Amy's – usually sunny – little face immediately scrunched up in an expression of displeasure and confusion. "Want to go 'sploring!" she whined miserably, pulling on Tom's sleeve as she did. "Not climbed for nothing!"

Tom considered her complaint to be quite reasonable – he was equally disappointed by the idea that their long climb had been a wasted effort – and was willing to forgive the whining because Amy, after all, had been entirely reliant on Tom throughout the journey.

Dennis sighed and turned back to the cliff they had just scaled. "If this was Neverland," he mumbled, for he had become greatly enamoured of J.M. Barrie's world once he'd realised that there were pirates in it, "Peter Pan would just fly us over."

Tom stilled momentarily and then turned slowly to his friend: in that moment the look in his eyes was an almost electrified thrill. "But Dennis," he replied in a soft, yet excited, tone, "I _can_ fly."

_Helium, 0.000524 percent of the atmosphere, lighter than oxygen: collect the molecules…_

* * *

Tom frowned as he struggled to remember exactly what the route they had taken into the cave had been. He was quite certain that they had crawled through a small hole at some point – but in the darkness it was almost impossible for him to tell whence they had come. He knew they had been following the passage they were in at that moment – which he _thought _was curving leftward and which seemed to extend quite far into the cliff – for a long time. The walls were just as slimy as they had been when he'd crawled through the hole, a fact of which he was certain because he was reluctantly running one hand along the wall to keep track of where it was …the other hand was holding Amy's tightly, so that she wouldn't let go, and her other hand was (in turn) held tightly by Dennis. They were, at the very least, together …that didn't change the fact that they were wandering around in the dark, though.

Tom peered forward, into the darkness. There was what appeared to be a small entrance – a small hole in the wall – further along the passageway. If it was so, Tom reasoned, then there must be light coming through it – for everywhere else was pitch black and _seeing_ anything was quite impossible: so much so that Tom would have been glad for even Rosie or his mother to make an appearance and glow for them, rather than being so helpless without the ability observe his surroundings. He did not speak that particular opinion, though, as he was far too aware of Amy's little hand quivering in his own – and of the breathing that _had _to come from Dennis (Tom couldn't really bare to think of who or _**what**_ _else_ might be making such noises, while hidden in the dark) which was just a little bit too quick: thus betraying the younger boy's state of mind.

In spite of what the matron thought, Tom considered himself to be a good boy – as far as good was actually reasonable and not just silliness like playing stupid in class so that the other children wouldn't feel as unintelligent as they actually were. The good boys and girls at the orphanage, he knew, helped take care of the younger ones. Tom winced slightly as his hand slid over a slightly sharper than average piece of rock. He was well aware that he was the oldest of the three of them and he knew that whether he liked it or not – and he most certainly did not – he was going to have to be the mature one and take care of Dennis and Amy …at least until they got out of the cave and back to the orphanage staff, at which point Tom would _finally_ be able to have a good cry: for he had honestly never been so frightened since his mother had stopped following him around.

Tom frowned again at that thought and shook his head slightly as they continued forward down the passage. It wasn't the same, he decided, as the slowly-building and ever present fear that had gripped him while she had followed him everywhere – that had been a constant, a maddening constant where the object of his terror was _known_ (there in daylight, there in night, but always the same) – it was also like the utter terror he had felt when he had first _seen_ his mother. The latter had been an immediate, panicky fear of some strange and horrific _unknown_.

This, however, was a far more terrifying mix of the two, Tom decided as he continued his mental analysis of his feelings – feelings were something he found more confusing than logic, after all, and analysing them helped him to remain somewhat calm. One the one hand were the unknowns: what was out there in the dark and what direction they were going. Yet on the other hand were not the usual, comforting, knowns such as how monsters couldn't get to you when you were under the blankets (everybody knew that) and how an adult would come if you called for them, but rather frightening knowns such as: 'we are lost' and 'I have to be the adult here, because the real adults don't know where we are'. The last one, Tom concluded, was the most frightening: the adults didn't know where they were. Even more frightening than that, however, was the final and most urgent known: Amy's fingers were getting very cold …and that was probably a good measure for all three of them.

"T-tom?" Dennis inquired suddenly, breaking the eerie not-quite-silence that engulfed the cave. "Tom, we're lost!"

_He's scared,_ Tom noted. This was followed by the surprisingly wise statement (one he'd heard often from Martha): _panic spreads_. "Then we need to find a road-sign!" Tom declared: his voice loud, calm and confident as he did – although in truth he felt more like Dennis inside.

There was a soft, hesitant sniffle-giggle from between them. Amy, clearly, had decided that Tom being funny made things a little less scary.

Dennis, however, was not amused. "Caves don't get made with road-signs!" he exclaimed angrily.

"They should be," Tom countered, well aware that he was talking nonsense. "Whoever made this cave wasn't very smart about it."

"_God_ made it," Dennis insisted, more annoyed than anything else.

"Then God's stupid," Tom replied matter-of-factly, although he mentally counted Dennis' focus on the argument as a step in the right direction and was therefore internally congratulating himself.

The hole in the wall had become clearly visible as they approached, indicating that there was some sort of light-source on the other side. The light didn't exactly look right, but Tom reasoned that it had to be coming from outside because caves didn't have light inside them …unless it shone down past the cave, through a hole under the water and back up into the cave from below – but Tom was fairly certain Martha had been making it up when she told him about a blue-grotty cave in a place called Capri that did that.

Hesitantly, the three children moved toward the hole on the other side of the passage – for which they had to cross the slightly-less-all-encompassing blackness between the two 'safe' points. Tom tried not to frown as they did – in case the others saw it – because it had occurred to him that Martha _never_ made things up and the light _really_ didn't look quite right, so they _**might**_ have been going in the wrong direction for _hours_ without realising it… whatever concerns might have followed that, however, were lost to the immediate panic of 'Dennis just let go of Amy and crawled through the hole'.

As there was nothing else he could do – he certainly wasn't leaving his _only real friend ever_, even if he really desperately wanted to get out of the scary place as fast as possible, besides: he had to be the mature one and keep calm otherwise they surely would _never _get out – Tom crawled through the small hole and then carefully helped Amy through after him.

Dennis had not gone far: he stood only a few stumbling-paces away, visible in the light (which was definitely shining up through the big dark, glowing lake – Tom decided, then and there, that lakes really should not glow and glowing lakes should be fixed so they were less scary). The younger boy's shoulders appeared to be slumped in defeat.

"We went the wrong way," Dennis said, although the lake – which they most certainly had never seen before – made that painfully obvious. "I'm tired," the six year old added, "and my feet hurt."

Amy, unsurprisingly, burst into tears. "I want a mummy!" she wailed, far too exhausted to contain her misery any longer. "I want a mummy!"

Tom frowned as he looked around the lakeside – judging by the muffled sniffling, Dennis would soon also start to cry. Suddenly something caught his attention, and Tom rushed over to the lake.

"Mister!" he called to the man in the water. "Hello!"

The man, whom Tom had seen in the shallow water at the very edge of the lake, did not respond. In fact, he merely continued to lie in the water – face down: which Tom thought was rather silly of him – and smell bad. Tom hadn't really noticed the awful stench – which he could have sworn he remembered from somewhere, almost like a half-forgotten dream – until he got up close to the man, but he supposed that anyone who lived in a cave would have to smell awful; since there was no way he could have brought a proper bath with him.

Tom reached out and shook the man, annoyed that the adult he had found was determined to be so uncooperative.

The man remained unresponsive and limp.

"GET UP!" Tom yelled, finally, frustrated and beginning to feel panic creeping through him once again.

There was a hand around his ankle.

Tom yelped in horror and tried to pull away, desperate to put distance between himself and the cold, moist, squishy palm with its long – sharp – fingernails.

Slowly, as if struggling to do so – and to remember how – the man raised him head from the water and straight at Tom. The half of its face which had been in the water had clearly been nibbled on by fish – and the sodden, rotten body now visible in the dim light was far worse than either Rosie or his mother had ever been.

"Run," Tom gasped weakly – which was not an entirely selfless statement, because a small part of him was hoping that he would still be alive (and not, say, eaten or drowned …or both) by the time someone thought to send help.

There was a sob of terror, most likely from Amy – although, given the circumstances, either child was plausible – and, to Tom's shock, suddenly a blast of hot light rushed toward the …thing. The thing let go of his ankle and pulled back – its bones creaking loudly (and one sounded almost like it had _snapped_) as it did.

Amazingly, although the blast of light was no longer present – and Tom quickly backed away from the lake once he realised that – there was still additional illumination than that which the lake provided.

"There're two of you!" Dennis exclaimed. Then, after a moment, he added, "WHY DIDN'T YOU DO THAT BEFORE, YOU LITTLE IDIOT?"

Tom blinked when he identified one of the odder notes in his friend's tone as exasperation. Sure enough, however, Dennis was right: the additional illumination seemed to be coming from Amy who – in what Tom presumed was her desperate fear of the darkness in which they were lost – had somehow created a sunny sort of glow around her. In fact, it seemed to be emanating from her hair – which Tom would have found odd, had he not known that the girl favoured fairy tale princesses with pretty hair, although it matched her natural golden-blonde locks very nicely.

"Practised," Amy explained, almost tearfully, although no question had technically been asked. "Got no light at night at orphanage, so I practise making light like Tommy!"

"I've got no," Tom corrected somewhat dazedly, as he was rather stunned by the idea that the girl not only also had his gift but had been attempting to emulate him.

For a moment, there was no sound in the cave except their breathing and the soft movement of the water.

Tom's eyes widened. "RUN!" he commanded the others, dashing toward Dennis and Amy – who were cowering by the small entrance hole – a moment after he gave the order.

Amy, still aglow in the most literal possible sense, was pushed – none too gently – through first, and Tom followed after her. Amy immediately latched onto his upper arm, as if afraid he would disappear, and Tom knelt by the hole in the wall to give Dennis a hand through. However, Dennis was only half way through when – in a moment that could have come right out of a horror story, had it not been so utterly, terrifyingly _real_ – his eyes widened and he jerked backward.

Tom immediately grabbed the younger boy's arms and pulled. Unfortunately, dead (it had to be dead, Tom reasoned, because it was rotting – the walking around bit was less decisive, since Rosie and his mother both did that) and half-rotten men were apparently evenly matched in strength to living, healthy, seven and a half year old boys.

"LET HIM GO!" Tom yelled, frantically.

For a moment Tom and Dennis merely stared, one up and one down, into each other's eyes and then, just for a moment, an almost accusatory look pushed past the panic in Dennis' wide eyes.

Tom, who was uncertain what it meant but unwilling to dally, tightened his grasp on his friend's arms and pulled.

Dennis came clear of the hole with an agonised scream – clearly if the thing had let go it had grabbed on again when Dennis had started moving – and Tom, in the Amy-light, could see that his friend's trousers were torn and a big hand print was clearly visible on the younger boy's lower leg. There were also scratches on his leg …five long, bleeding scratches.

Tom didn't bother to stop and ask what had happened, he merely grabbed one of Amy's little hands in his left and one of Dennis' in his right and then – having pulled Dennis rather roughly to his feet, due to haste rather than malice – began hurrying down the passageway, forcing the two smaller children to run as fast as they could just to keep up with him.

By some miracle, they made it all the way down the passage, through the first little hole in the wall and back through the first few chambers of the cave without losing their footing or getting lost (although the latter could be explained by Amy's slowly dimming glow).

When they had reached the outside of the cave, however, they ran across a new problem: the sun was setting – Tom honestly didn't understand how it had come to be so late – and the darkening water in the cove-made-lagoon looked disturbingly like that of the lake …except not glowing, which was a relief to Tom. Amy, however, clearly didn't see it that way, because she immediately burst into tears again and the last of the light around her faded.

Dennis looked at Tom expectantly.

"I don't want to risk dropping one of you while half way across. We have to swim," Tom said, trying to be reasonable – it was rather difficult, because he was fairly certain he had seen a lumbering and slow moving figure coming through the first (and now somewhat flooded) room of the cave.

"NO!" Amy shrieked.

"It's easier to climb on that side," Tom reasoned. "Swim!"

Hysterical young children, however, did not necessarily take well to reason when reason involved going through something big, dark and scary.

As it had become very clear that the answer was going to be a resounding 'no', Tom grabbed Amy and pushed her against the cliff-face. "It's either this way," he stated, then dipped his head in the direction of the water, "or _that_ way."

Neither of the other children, as it turned out, needed any more encouragement than that and the three began to scale the cliff – although their somewhat numb hands and exhausted bodies made them clumsy. On more than one occasion, Tom used his abilities – although he couldn't specifically identify which scientific method he had used – to keep his companions from falling.

When they were all about half way up, Dennis glanced down and gave a little moan of terror. Tom didn't need to follow the suit to understand that the thing had followed them out of the cave. Amy, however, did look down and, quite understandably, squealed in terror.

Tom, who was the lowest down of the three, nodded encouragingly up to the others. He then looked down and saw, rather than heard, the thing make a noise.

"Dennis!" Tom called.

"What?" Dennis replied.

Tom smiled slightly when he realised he could barely hear the other boy, to whom he was quite near, due to the pounding of the waves below them. "I bet I can climb this faster than you!" he cried.

It was a desperate attempt to give the exhausted boy some motivation to keep climbing – half way up a cliff was not the right place for a panic attack – but it was one that worked, because Dennis turned and began to climb again, announcing "No you can't!" as he did.

Amy, however, was unmoved.

"Amy!" Tom exclaimed, frustrated.

"I'm scared!" Amy cried, clinging to the rocks which made up her precarious support in a pitiful manner.

"I'll teach you to fly if you reach the top before Dennis!" Tom called out.

Amy merely sniffled and buried her dirty face as much as she could against the equally dirty rocks.

"You won't fall!" Tom tried again. "I'll catch you!"

With a tiny, hesitant nod, Amy began her shaky climb again.

There was a strange, harsh sound on the wind – both human and inhuman in sound. It seemed to grow louder as they got closer to the top of the cliff and found himself wondering, in horror, if the thing could somehow have reached the top before them. The next time the harsh scream came, however, a sense of relief came upon him and he grasped at the rocks with more vigour.

"Keep going!" Tom cried to his companions – Amy on his upper left, Dennis on his upper right.

"_**MAAS!" **_

Amy grasped at the top of the cliff with her thin little arms and, after a moment, managed to pull herself up onto the cliff top. Mere moments later, Dennis also hauled himself onto the safety of the grass.

"Martha, stop," Tom heard – and Amy and Dennis saw, as they struggled to stand – Mister Stone say. "Stop; they aren't _here._"

It was in practically the same instant that Amy and Dennis seemed to recognise the adults some feet from the cliff's edge and what little restraint had kept them going through their ordeal gave way to sheer terror, exhaustion and relief. As Tom struggled to pull himself up onto the cliff top, Dennis and Amy launched themselves – sobbing quite hysterically – into the shocked arms of Jonathan Stone and Eleanor Cole, respectively. Martha Elder stood between her two colleagues – who were checking their weeping wards over for injuries – staring silently at Tom as he struggled to stand and, for just one brief moment, glanced back down the cliff he had just scaled.

In the time it had taken them to scale the cliff, the sun had set properly and, although he was exhausted, Tom did his best to maintain his composure – the younger children needed him to be strong for them and, as far as Tom was concerned, being needed was a nice change from being unwanted. There had been no sign of the thing when he'd checked, but he really didn't want to leave any risk of it following them. With the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his head spinning somewhat (in spite of his blank expression) he saw but did not hear what the doctor had said to him. It looked like it might have been his name.

_Sound is a vibration – given a deep enough wavelength that vibration causes pressure; pressure in intensity has power. It can break things. _

The three orphanage workers watched in mute shock as the ground began to tremble and Tom stumbled haphazardly forward: away from the cliff which was crumbling beneath his feet.

When the quaking finally stopped, what had once been a cove had become a straight cliff – with only one or two small pillars of rock standing out in the sea to mark where the outmost points of the cliff had once been – which, in itself, had lost quite a few feet from its front; leaving it almost certainly impossible to climb.

Tom took several more, stumbling, steps forward and – finally overtaken by exhaustion – collapsed onto the ground …almost precisely where he had lain so many hours before, while pretending to be dead.

* * *

**To Dhelana Joie:** I hope you have continued to enjoy the story long enough to come across this reply. I am very glad to know that you have been enjoying it and that my efforts to make it historically accurate please you.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** It's good to hear that you liked the scene of Tom and Dennis at play – I have to admit I was very pleased with the way it turned out. As you'll have read my take on the cave scene by the time you reach this reply, I can only hope that it turned out to be as awesome as you had been certain it would. I'm afraid I'm going to have to answer your question with a question (and not one that makes me sound particularly intelligent or well informed, no less), although it will indubitably answer yours… What exactly is a 'Pottermore'?

**To Sarafina:** I'm glad to hear that you've been enjoying the story.

**To Shebali:** I thought that it was a nice little touch, myself – I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who thinks so! I'm also glad to know you liked the cliff-hanger, as I simply couldn't resist the chance to have it be both metaphorical and literal. I hope you've enjoyed the cave. …Somehow I think I'm going to put our conversation into circles if I reply to your 'welcome' with 'thanks', which was my first instinct…

**Hiei's Cute Girl:** I'll admit the white flair _is_ good, you're right about that – but I'm not sure I could agree that putting an albino-peacock-you into the grounds of Malfoy Manor would result in someone ending up dead. I somehow doubt Mister Malfoy kills his decorations, you see. …unless, of course, you meant it the other way around, in which case I suppose it is possible… I'm glad to know that you've been finding uni rewarding, albeit taxing, so far. You don't have to thank me for responding, you know, I like replying to reviews – after all, the reviewers also put in effort _by_ taking the time to review at all. It's good to know you liked the way I handled Tom's introduction to the rule by one/rule by many debate and the problems with democracy. What you say about the pirates is exactly right – personally, I think most people tend to forget that because they have trouble putting the ideas 'pirates' and 'civilized' together. Thank you for the luck – if I've been lucky enough, you may have enjoyed the chapter I posted with this review.

**To LavenderStorm:** I hope it hasn't been anything terribly unpleasant which has been taking up your free time – whether you would use it to read my writing or not – of late. Regarding the Myers-Briggs? Js are inclined toward the group, Ps toward themselves – someone whose motives are to help their society (in whatever form that may be: Hitler, certainly, believed he was helping his people) is a J, someone whose ultimate motives are for their own good (which is not a bad thing, nor does it exclude the possibility or ability to aid others at the same time) is a P. Voldemort claims to be trying to 'fix' the wizarding world – for its own good – but his ultimate concern was his own immortality (not even, necessarily, his power, although that was probably second place on his list of priorities) which is a decidedly P goal. Nevertheless, that's just a very rough overview of one or two points – I could go into detail, but I don't want to write another chapter's length about it right now or I'll never get around to starting chapter forty. Clearly, I've given all of this (the Myers-Briggs, not answering your review) way more thought than it needed.

I'm glad you like the way Tom acted around Amy – I wanted to make that as realistic as possible. You're spot on when you point out that Tom and Dennis don't have much in common – other than believing that girls have cooties. To answer your question: at the moment Tom doesn't really have a concept of hanger-on. Dennis has been his friend – although they don't have much in common – since Tom was nine months old and has pretty much always gone along with whatever the older boy wanted to do (although playing with dead girls was only a reluctant agreement on Dennis' part). To Tom, Dennis is his friend – his only friend – but the combination of Tom's vast intellect and the nine month age difference leaves them with a gap regarding ability to understand. Nevertheless, Dennis has stayed with Tom through thick and thin and is important to Tom because he is one of the few people in Tom's world who actually likes him. If Tom does have a concept of hanger-on, it wouldn't be something he would associate with anyone close to him – on account of the fact that he would assume hangers-on were something that happened to people who were generally liked (which he knows excludes him).

**To encendres:** You found it through TV Tropes? I'll have to remember to thank Shebali again for putting a recommendation up for it. I'm pleased to know you've been enjoying it. I'm also glad to know you like the atmosphere I've been trying to build throughout it. However, I'm absolutely thrilled by what you had to say about how I've been handling Tom's character, so thank you for your kind words. I hope I haven't kept you from breathing for too long, considering how long it took me to get this chapter ready and up.

**To ZarosKnight:** I doubt it's the actual funniest line you've ever read in fiction, but I'm delighted to know you think so highly of my story and that the line amused you so greatly. It's also good to know that I'm not the only one who thinks he shouldn't be permanently gloomy.

**To LuciusBelyakov:** I'm glad you liked the way I handled Merope's background. I actually hadn't thought of it that way when I wrote that line about Tom Sr. I suppose it could come across as quite petty. I wrote it thinking more about how Tom Sr. would have viewed Merope once he was no longer under the influence of a love potion: useless. That's not to say useless in a 'this person is useless to me' sort of way, but in that he would have recognised that staying with her would not have been 'Tom and Merope raising their baby' – it would have been 'Tom raising a baby and taking constant care of his wife', because Merope was naïve, undereducated and completely alien to his world. I wrote it with the idea that Tom Sr. probably listed 'take it to get its shots' amongst many other things, but that – because she didn't understand – that one was the example that got stuck in her head. He wouldn't just have had to take his son for occasional vaccinations: he would have had to do _everything _for _both_ his son _and_ his wife – as well as trying to hold down a job so that they could live. Merope could take care of herself in a rundown shack where weak magic was the only known force, but she would have been as incapable as an infant in the highly-technological and scientific world of London in the nineteen-twenties.

…I'd continue to discuss your other statements, but we talked about them previously and I've run out of time to write replies.


	40. Dennis Doesn't Live Here Anymore Sep '34

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Forty: Dennis Doesn't Live Here Anymore**

The inn had a homely look to it, even late at night when all the patrons had gone to their individual rooms – baring those three adults who had come in so very late – the staff had finished their day's work and most had settled into their own beds. Those three guests who still sat up in the dining room were seated around the dying fire and there was a solemn, tense, feeling among them; which seemed at odds with the warm and homely surroundings.

The inn was an old building and – although it had been modernized to a degree – its late sixteenth century origins still showed in the building's form: just as the age of the plumbing, much of which had been installed many decades ago, showed as it rattled and in the auditory quirks it displayed in some places. One such place was a guestroom nearly, but not directly, above the dining room, in which three young children lay – the one asleep, the other two listening to the conversation below through the echoes from the pipes.

"Have you arranged the train tickets?" asked one of the women in the dining room.

"Yes, Eleanor," the male guest – Jonathan Stone – replied irritably. "I have the tickets here, we return to London on the first train tomorrow. I've also called the orphanage to let them know that we've found the children and will be back tomorrow – _and_ you tucked the children into bed yourself not an hour ago! There is nothing that needs fretting over. Please desist."

The guest seated furthest from the fire – whose voice would have been the most difficult to hear through the pipes if it had not been for the clarity and precision of her cold, sardonic tone – turned her cooling cup of tea in her hands idly. "If it bothers you," she said, "send Madam Cotterill up to check on them."

"For God's sake, Martha," Eleanor exclaimed, "she's an innkeeper, not a servant!"

"Be that as it may, she had already willingly assisted in bathing the children and made us all a late dinner when we arrived – which was quite beyond her duties – as well as lending them nightclothes while their own clothes were washed," Martha replied coolly, gesturing to the three (slightly torn and still rather damp, but no longer filthy) sets of orphanage uniforms hanging in front of the fire as she did. "When she inquired as to whether or not there was anything else she could do for us, at which point the two of you were in deep conversation, I saw no reason to lie."

There was a pause, which seemed to imply a level of disbelief from Jonathan and Eleanor; but mere thoughtfulness on the doctor's part, then Martha added, "She will return from her errand shortly, I believe."

"You cannot possibly blame her for worrying," Jonathan stated, his irritation only aggravated by the doctor's attitude. "The poor children could probably feel the first tremors of the earthquake while they were climbing back up – that would terrify anyone!"

The doctor nodded. "Indeed," she murmured. "The little ones were too hysterical to make any definite statement other than that they had gone exploring."

Eleanor leaned forward in her chair. "And Tom?" she inquired. "What did he say when you revived him?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "He claims they were chased by a cadaver."

Eleanor sprang from her chair, agitated, and began to pace by the fire. "That's not _possible_," she whispered harshly, perhaps unaware that she was voicing her thoughts.

"I am aware of that," the doctor replied, her tone completely lacking in inflection. "However the claw marks on Dennis' leg match a human hand."

Eleanor turned sharply toward her. "What are you saying, Martha?" she asked, with a note of almost hysterical incredulity creeping into her question.

"I suggest that they may have stumbled across someone else who had become lost in the caves previously," the doctor stated. "In the dark they would have recognised a human shape, human sounds and it would explain the claw – or, rather, nail – marks. They were scared and in the dark: they only imagined that it was a corpse chasing them."

"No," Eleanor said, still pacing and frustrated. "I'm_ sure_ Tom did something to them. I'm sure of it. He must have been the one to claw poor Dennis' leg."

Then, to the bafflement of Madam Cotterill – who had returned to check the fire – Eleanor muttered something about checking on the children and left the room.

"There was a time when all civilized cultures were certain the Earth was flat, Eleanor," the doctor stated, aware that her voice would carry quite well, "yet that did not make it so."

Jonathan watched the doctor's face, for a moment, as she pensively stared into the fire, then spoke. "Martha? What is it?"

The doctor did not look away from the dying flames as she spoke, "Not one of the people we know were in that cave had a hand big enough to make those marks."

It would have been impossible to tell when, precisely, she noted the presence of the innkeeper, but she abruptly stood and directed her attention to their kindly benefactor. "I've had enough of ghost stories for one evening and shall retire." Then, without so much as bidding her company goodnight, the doctor strode from the room and soon her firm steps could be heard on the stairs.

"Pity I didn't know you was telling ghost stories, sir," Madam Cotterill told Jonathan, "if you'll excuse my saying so. But our old inn 'ere's got a mighty good one of its own."

"Is that so?" Jonathan murmured, not really listening to the talkative woman.

"Oh yes," she said. "Back about sixteen ten it was, that the then-owner's son came 'ome after most of the year at some far off apprenticeship – like 'e'd done the last four years – chatting about potions, witchcraft and an 'aunted castle. The locals back then didn't like that, I tell you – thought it was unchristian, 'course we've got a different view on what's unchristian nowadays, don't we? Then one day the owner gets up to find his son 'anging from the rafters; with a rope made of 'is bed sheets still tight around 'is neck." Apparently unaware of her audience's lack of interest, the innkeeper waved her hand up at the visible rafters in the adjacent entrance hall's high ceiling and kept talking, "Was right over there it 'appened, and no one's ever been sure whether t'was the boy or 'is father who done it. But they say our old inn's still 'aunted by the poor boy – most says 'e likes to look after our guests."

"Fascinating," Jonathan mumbled: his response quite obviously lacklustre. "If you don't mind, though, Ma'am, I shall also retire."

That was the last of the conversation heard through the old pipes and it might have meant very little to the two boys eavesdropping on it, except that when little Dennis rolled over he noticed that Tom was still staring somewhat fixedly at one dark corner of the room – just as he had been throughout the entire time they'd been listening. Tom, for his part, elected not to mention that he was staring at – and being stared at by – a boy of about fifteen years of age, who loosely held a ghostly pin dangling from his fingers (Tom thought he could see the word 'claw' written on it) and whose bed sheets still hung around his neck and draped down by his side.

"This is your fault!" a sharp whisper echoed through the door. "You were supposed to be watching them!"

"True enough," the unmistakable voice of the doctor replied. "We all were."

Tom flattened himself onto the bed the moment the door opened and a small shaft of light illuminated the room. The forms of Mrs. Cole and Doctor Elder were framed in the light shining through the doorway.

The matron paused before she continued the conversation they had abruptly ceased when they opened the door. "In all her time running the orphanage," she said, though her throat was clearly tight with emotion as she did, "Samantha only ever really lost one of her charges." Mrs. Cole swallowed, sharply. "I nearly lost three in a single day."

* * *

"What did he do to you?" the matron demanded, her voice echoing oddly.

Tom was shaking the man in the water. "GET UP!"

Then, suddenly, Tom was standing nearer Amy and Dennis again. "RUN!" the older boy yelled.

"What did he do?" the matron cried again, pulling Dennis back toward her by his legs – her clawing hands tearing his flesh as she did.

"LET HIM GO!" Tom yelled at her. At least, Dennis thought it was yelled at her – but they kept switching between the dark cave and the bright inn so fast that he really couldn't tell.

"SWIM!" Tom's voice – Dennis wasn't quite sure where the other boy's body was, but it could have rotted in the water – commanded.

"We just went exploring!" Dennis cried, desperately pulling away from the clawing, rotten, hands.

"GET UP!" Tom yelled in the darkness.

The monster rose.

It was with the sort of been-punched-in-the-gut feeling that can sometimes occur with an unpleasant realisation that Dennis woke up. He rolled over in his bed (although, it was actually just an infirmary bed). He still had the echoes of the final shrieks from the dream – the nightmare – ringing in his ears. Across the dark room he could see the doctor arguing Amy back into bed. Dennis could hardly blame the little girl for wanting to leave, he decided, since they had been confined there for a week. Nevertheless, she made a perfect distraction for his own brief escape.

Although the Disturbed Room was only one door down from the infirmary, it was a hard walk for Dennis – not only because it was the middle of the night, and therefore very dark, but also because the deep claw marks in his leg had yet to fully heal and putting weight on it was painful. Soon enough – or was it all too soon – he managed to get into the room, shut the door behind him and shuffle over to Tom's bed.

Dennis sat delicately on the edge of the bed – in fact, he would have preferred to remain standing, but his leg could not cope – and roughly jabbed the sleeping boy in the side.

Tom's nose scrunched up for a moment before he opened his eyes in confusion. He stared up at the younger boy's face, which was filled with hatred and cold rage, and after a few, seemingly endless, seconds of searching his friend's expression, the confused expression Tom wore changed into a strange – not quite blank – expression; wherein only his eyes betrayed both the sense of deep loss and that he was at a loss.

"It was you," Dennis stated, with his voice nearly trembling from the viciousness in it.

Tom shook his head – almost questioningly.

"It was YOU," Dennis repeated, unaware that tears were beginning to well in his eyes. "You and your …freak abilities! You made it chase us!"

"I DID NOT!" Tom yelled back, confused by the idea that Dennis might believe he would do something like make a monster chase his friend and hurt by the fact that his friend – his only friend – was apparently …no longer his friend.

The door opened and the matron entered, with an almost comical expression of shock on her face. "What is going on here?" she exclaimed.

"Nothing," Dennis said sullenly as he stood and began stumbling back toward the door.

"Dennis has urine instead of a brain," Tom said, equally as sullen as his not-a-friend.

"That was very rude," Mrs. Cole told him, sternly. "Now apologise."

"I'm sorry if you are," Tom told Dennis bluntly. The sarcastic, not quite sneering tone he had taken made it quite impossible to know if he was telling the truth or merely being contrary.

The matron sighed and sat down on his bed, in the space Dennis had just vacated. "Tom," she said, "I know that children sometimes do things that they later regret and I promise you," she squeezed his knee, through the bedding, for emphasis, "I shan't be angry or upset with you if you tell me what you did to the others."

Tom, offended by her presumption that he must have done something – the same she had when she'd asked Amy what _he'd _done to them, some seven days earlier – levelled her with a cold, composed look which probably should have counted as a glare, even though it was not technically one. "I did _nothing_," he stated, and his cold – unshakeable – tone brooked no argument.

"We just went _exploring_," Dennis sneered from the doorway, his tone making a mockery of the statement.

* * *

On the tenth of August, after more than a month of, mostly silent, feuding between Tom and Dennis – and after slightly less than three weeks of boys, whom Dennis shared his dorm with, suffering from poor sleep on account of being woken by Dennis' nightmares – the staff took action.

Neither Tom nor Dennis was of the opinion that it was a good action – but some of the more optimistic staff members agreed that this was a good sign, because it was the first time in a month that the pair had agreed on anything. In fact, it had become something of a point of honour for both boys to _actively disagree _with anything the other boy said – even though they mainly insisted on getting someone else to tell their opponent what they had to say – to the point that one day Tom had insisted the sky was orange with pink clouds (on a clear day) simply because Dennis said that the sky was blue.

The staff had made the decision – that is, the decision to take the course of action that both boys found objectionable – after an argument between Mrs. Cole and Doctor Elder. To the surprise of everyone present, the doctor had actually lost her temper and yelled that she could not continue to give Dennis sleep aids forever.

Dennis Bishop had been moved into the Disturbed Room.

It was in the Disturbed Room, in fact, that he first spoke to Tom directly since their fight. He had only just been forced – as he had no desire to sleep in the room for strange children – to carry his things through to his new bedroom and Doctor Elder watched quietly from the doorway as the two boys stared at each other, across the room, from their parallel positions on their beds.

It was Tom, as usual, who opened the conversation. "Dennis?"

Dennis, however, was very upset about being moved into the room for strange children – because that obviously said something about how the staff viewed _him_ – and lashed out at the safest available target. "I don't want to talk to _you,_" he told Tom.

Tom, in turn, flushed quite red and sat up a little straighter on his bed (the boys had both settled into cross-legged positions opposite each other, mirroring each other; in fact). "Well, I don't want you in my room!" he snapped.

"I don't want to be here!" Dennis exclaimed.

"Good!" Tom replied viciously.

"Good!" Dennis spat back.

There was a pause.

"Are you leaving yet?" Tom asked after a few awkward moments.

"The matron says I have to share with you," Dennis replied angrily. "I don't _want_ to share with you."

"Then we'll ignore each other," Tom stated.

"Good," Dennis replied.

"Good," Tom agreed.

There was another awkward pause.

"So you have to stay away from me," Dennis said firmly.

"Same for you," Tom sneered back.

There was a third pause, almost deafening in its silence.

"We both need the closet," Tom pointed out, rationally (which actually saved Martha from intervening to say the same thing).

Dennis nodded slowly. Then he frowned. "But I don't want you in my area," he said.

Tom suddenly sprang to his feet, clearly struck by some idea, then climbed through the closet and returned less than a minute later; through the same secret passage. He was holding the doctor's role of masking tape.

"We both need to reach the closet," Dennis repeated.

Tom nodded and stretched the masking tape along the floor – making a dividing line between the front part of the room, where the two beds stood, and the back third of the room, where the closet was – before tearing the used piece off with his teeth. "Mutual territory," he said firmly, pleased by the difficult term; although by nothing else.

Then Tom paced out what he figured was the middle point of the room and made a second masking tape line down from the first to the door. "This is my side," he stated, pointing down beside his left foot.

Dennis apparently didn't need any further explanation, because he pushed Tom away with an inane exclamation of "You're on my side!"

"One foot!" Tom replied, in kind, after he'd stumbled entirely back into 'his' side and regained his balance.

"One foot too many!" Dennis yelled.

Tom, who was apparently too angry for words, stalked out of the room. The closet door slammed shut behind him.

Very shortly thereafter, Martha pulled him out from under her desk; where he had been crying. She did not have much luck in calming him and the only statement she could make out amid all his sobbing was either "No one wants me!" or "No one likes me!", but she couldn't tell which.

* * *

It was very late at night, but Tom lay awake in his bed. Personally, he thought it was strange how quickly one could become accustomed to something. In the space of one month and thirteen days he had become accustomed to waking up in the morning to find an empty, warm space in his bed that suggested someone smaller had crawled in with him overnight and to the sight of Dennis – with whom he had not reconciled – in the bed opposite to him.

Tom glanced over at the empty bed across from him, which was stripped of its sheets. The increasing volume of the murmuring in the infirmary suggested that there would soon be voices raised on the other side of the wall and the sound of little feet in the hall suggested his nocturnal visitor would soon arrive, but neither really seemed to register with him as he stared across at the empty bed.

There was a sharp gasp from near the door.

Tom turned and propped himself up immediately, fairly certain of his visitor's identity, although all he'd seen was a little bit of long glowing hair disappearing from around the corner of the ajar door.

"I'm sorry," Tom called as softly as he could. "I didn't mean to scare you. Come in."

Amy Benson poked her little head around the door cautiously – it was obvious that she had been acting as her own candle as she'd made her way through the dark, because her hair still had a slight glow to it – and her blue eyes widened comically at the sight of Tom sitting awake in his bed.

She wasn't the sort of company that Tom wanted, but he desperately wanted company and so he gently outstretched a hand and gestured for her to come in and join him – which she did eagerly, although she nervously bit her lower lip as she closed the door behind her with her right hand. Tom noticed that she reached across her body to do so, as she evidently wanted to keep her eyes on him while she did and she was holding an old blanket in her more conveniently placed hand.

"I don't like it," Martha's stated on the other side of the infirmary wall. "It happened too fast, you didn't pay that much attention to what sort of people they were."

"They seemed like a lovely couple," Mrs. Cole replied, heatedly.

"Seemed," the doctor replied.

"They've given us no reason to think they aren't going to make excellent parents," the matron stated firmly.

Amy blinked at Tom in confusion, which suggested to Tom that she wasn't used to hearing adults arguing on the other side of walls. Tom was used to it – it had expanded his vocabulary immensely.

"You think I should have told them," they heard the matron say, with a note of wonder and bitterness in her voice.

"They deserve to know that the child they have taken in suffers from nightmares, yes," the doctor replied. "I think you, in your eagerness to find him a home, forgot that parents do not like it when they do not receive the sort of child they expected to receive."

They heard the matron ask something, but – as Tom noted her fading voice, in conjunction with her footsteps – she was about to leave the infirmary and her words had become too quiet to make out.

"Denny's bed's empty," Amy pointed out after a while. Then, after a pause, she curiously – and faintly fearfully – added, "Monster got him?"

Tom, who did not like the idea of monsters being brought up late at night or in the dark; let alone both, pulled her slightly closer (almost like a living soft toy) and replied as gently and soothingly as he could, "No, silly, he's been adopted."

"Adopted?" Amy chirped curiously. "Adopted with new parents?"

"That's right," Tom said.

Amy frowned. "I thought parents give bed times," she mumbled tiredly. "Why don't they send Denny to bed?"

Tom blinked. "Amy," he said slowly, "Dennis doesn't live here anymore."

"Oh," she mumbled, practically nuzzling against him like a cat.

Tom lay back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, as he idly ran his fingers through his companion's hair. "Lavender's blue, dilly dilly," he murmured quietly as he continued to pet the sleepy little girl, "lavender's green. When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen."

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To WITchY65:** Thank you. I'm glad to know you found the brief paraphrase from my fact finders (available on my livejournal account for this story, which can be found through my profile page) enlightening.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** Actually, luck doesn't really play into it. You're quite correct: it is an inferius – as to how it got there… well you may have guessed from what is show in this chapter, since two characters each give _half_ of the correct explanation. Martha quite rightly suggests that they stumbled across the body of some one – possibly a cave explorer or an unfortunate fisherman whose boat had sunk there – but Dennis is also somewhat correct: Tom made it chase them. It's just that he didn't do it intentionally. Unlike Dennis and Amy, Tom was trying to keep a lid on all his fears – his despair, panic, et cetera – during their journey through the caves and although he has a great deal of control over his magic, he is not immune to bursts of accidental magic in extreme situations. If you look carefully – as is highlighted by Dennis' nightmare – the inferius followed every single command Tom gave. In other words, if this had happened in a situation where Tom lived with relations who were crazy like Marvolo Gaunt (or crazy like Bellatrix Lestrange) it would have resulted in some female relation pinching his cheeks and hugging him too tightly while quite sincerely exclaiming "Oh, Tommy! Your first reanimated corpse! I'm so proud!" – which would no doubt make him highly uncomfortable.

Considering how well you've managed to capture the way I've been looking at Tom, in that paragraphs, I'm sure you'll do an admirable job of portraying him as a three-dimensional character.

Thank you for explaining – it cleared up my confusion very well (perhaps you should take the time to tutor the younger snakes in your house?). It also sparked my interest (and my nerves, since I've had a little corner of my brain panicking about keeping accurate to canon in the future of this series when I don't have access to all the information) and I'll be sure to register once the beta period is over.

Actually, you're not the biggest nerd ever. To my knowledge, no Potternut as of yet has managed to beat the record for nerd size (is that the right term?) set by Trekkies – as opposed to the slightly-less overzealous Trekkers. Of course, by the time this goes up Trekkie and Trekker will have probably switched meanings again. I'm actually starting to think the term difference is generational (so first generation Trekkie, second generation Trekker, third generation Trekkie again?).

**To Hiei's Cute Girl:** It would certainly be a case of black comedy; that peacock. Of course, one could potentially imagine that Mister Malfoy's peacocks would have gone axe-crazy in response to being forced to share the house with a very large (free roaming) snake. After all, if Nagini is big enough to eat a human, she can certainly swallow a peacock.

A chef, huh? The best of luck to you in that, then, both in getting good grades and in staying alive (is this where your idea of homicidal poultry comes from, by any chance?).

And since I always want to thank you for reviewing, and/or thanking me, we appear to be stuck in a vicious circle of being nice – because, in all honestly, it sounds like you will always be grateful for my replies and I will always be grateful for the quality of the reviews you give.

Dennis likes to think he's on the same level as pirates. Adults, however, I dare say you have quite pegged with that statement.

I can't begin to say how relieved I am to hear that you enjoyed the chapter – I've never really written adventure or horror before, so I posted it wondering nervously if it was going to be cliché and ridiculous rather than scary. Therefore I hope you can forgive me for having grinned and clapped my hands when I first read your statement that you'd been on the edge of your seat. The best chapter so far, hmmm? Oh dear, now I've got a standard to keep up for the rest of it. *chuckles* The best of luck to you as well.

**To Dhelana Joie:** A favourite at the moment? That's high praise indeed – I only hope my writing continues to live up to it. I'm glad you think it suited Halloween. …You know, I'm pretty sure you're the first person I've ever seen say they were waiting patiently for an update on this site. I hope you've enjoyed it.

**To Shebali:** First, I need to thank you again, since one person has already stated they found this fic through TV Tropes. Secondly, I have to admit that I'm thrilled to hear that you were on the edge of your seat. I was so worried that it wasn't going to be scary and it's a great relief to know that I managed to do an adequate job of it. I'm very glad to know that my writing was up to your expectations and can only hope that this chapter also has been.


	41. Oranges And Lemons: October 1934

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One: Oranges and Lemons**

All the children in the orphanage were required to help with the practical aspect of running the orphanage by completing their assigned chores – although the number and type of chores was decided by each child's age, the number of children of each age there were currently living in the orphanage and how many children had recently misbehaved. Since Dennis Bishop's departure, near a fortnight ago, however, Tom Riddle had been misbehaving so often that Henry Cole had actually postulated that they would run out of chores for the boy to do before he ran out of inventive new forms of misbehaviour. Later that day the unfortunate Mr. Cole had discovered that Tom had learned to combine punishment with new ways to misbehave, when one of the older orphans had been foolish enough to leave Tom alone with the basket of laundry he was to help hang up. When Mr. Cole passed by a few minutes later and was hit in the face with a wet sock it became painfully clear that Tom saw the smaller articles of clothing as perfectly sized projectiles and had taken to pelting passers-by with them. The more charitable members of the staff had concluded that Tom was acting out because he was upset that his friend had left before they could reconcile and that, without a playmate, he was desperate for things to keep him occupied. The less charitable members of the staff were those who had not managed to escape the flying socks.

After the sock-incident that morning, therefore, Tom had been given a second chore to take up his Saturday – this time under the watchful eye of Doctor Elder, the only member of the staff to whom Tom was not yet talking back – and directly after lunch he had been marched up to the infirmary to clean the floor. He would have been spanked but the staff had long since worked out that Tom would have to be physically restrained for such a thing to happen – the boy would not accept the punishment, but would instead: run from it, violently lash out (with apparently endless energy) at anyone who tried to restrain him, bite, spit, kick and generally make things impossible – and that he seemed to take corporeal punishment as an insult: which inevitably led to him misbehaving _even more_ than he had done before it. Oddly, his objections to doing chores as punishment were far less violent. It was for that reason that he was trusted to clean the infirmary floor and not pour soapy water onto the beds and into the doctor's filing cabinets.

In fact, Doctor Elder had noted that the boy seemed almost pleased to be given chores: an oddity she deemed rational because Tom was regularly teased (bullied, really) by the other children – although he did his best to give as well as he got, even though he had no one to back him up like the others did – and the other children knew that they would be punished if they made things difficult for any child doing their chores. She had concluded that Tom was using the chores as a sort of shield to protect him from the other children's attacks and had long since decided to allow Tom the relative oasis of chores – she even allowed for his, often partially verbalised, daydreaming …although she put her foot down when Tom tried to use his ability to make the scrub brush do the work itself.

Tom had been cleaning the infirmary floor for an hour (he appeared determined to do a very thorough job of it, which seemed to be further evidence for the doctor's theory as that also meant it would take as long as possible) when the doctor was called away to tend an injury some unfortunate child had suffered while playing outside on the steps.

Tom smiled as she left and turned his attention to making one of the beds float – just a little – so that he could clean under it. Although, technically, it was the mental image of the infirmary beds flying around the room in a sort of bizarre ballet that he was smiling at. In fact, he was so amused by the thought that he did not notice the door open and close as someone entered.

"You're in trouble," Amy said quietly.

Under the bed, Tom rolled his eyes. "I am," he agreed mildly.

Amy looked thoughtfully at what she could see of him. "Then why do you hum?" she asked, clearly baffled. As far as she understood, punished was a bad thing.

Tom blinked, pausing in his work. "I hadn't realised I was."

"Hmmm, hmm, hmm, hmmm… can't remember the rest," Amy said.

Tom slid gracelessly out from under the bed, which dropped back to the floor almost as soon as he was out, and looked at her thoughtfully; trying to place the tune.

After a few moments of contemplation, at which point he had the sort of really bad idea that seems at the time to be a really good idea, Tom stood up and sat down on the nearest bed while holding the two scrub brushes he'd been provided with. To Amy's bafflement, he slid his left foot into the handle of one scrub brush and his right foot into the other.

Hesitantly, he stood. After a few moments of wobbling, he carefully slid forward – away from the safety of the bed and the soft landing it would provide. As he grew more confident, he began to slide across the floor faster, leaving trails of soap suds in his wake.

Amy giggled and clapped her hands, clambering onto the nearest bed to watch the show.

Tom began sliding in an elegant figure eight – although he most likely was using his abilities to hold himself upright – and, unbidden, the lyrics he had been unable to recall came back to him.

"Oranges and lemons," he sang. "Say the bells of St. Clement's."

* * *

"You owe me five farthings," Tom sang absently to himself as he read. "Say the bells of St. Martin's."

"What are you doing?" Amy asked, suddenly sitting down on the steps next to him.

Tom looked up – although not _at _the little girl – and snapped his book shut.

Amy peered curiously at him, apparently baffled by the fact that he continued to stare straight forward and otherwise refused to acknowledge her presence. She then turned to look in the direction Tom was staring; she was apparently quite convinced that if Tom was staring off that way with such intensity there must be something interesting there. When she saw nothing but the other children playing in the courtyard (as the school-aged children had finished their classes for the day and still had some small amount of time to play outside before dinner) she turned back to Tom with a confused frown. Then she hesitantly opened her mouth.

"Oh, for _the last time_, Amy: LEAVE ME _ALONE_!" Tom snarled, whirling to face her as he did.

Amy, who had been completely oblivious to the irritation silently building up in Tom over the past few weeks, jerked backward in shock.

"You follow me at meals, you follow me when you should be playing with the other babies; you even follow me to bed!" Tom exclaimed. He was holding his Latin grammar so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. "Can I not sit down to read for _five minutes_ without you _hanging _on me?"

"You promised you'd teach me to fly," Amy mentioned, quietly, but both of the children knew that promises of flying were not the reason she trailed after him at every opportunity. That, however, did not change the fact that Tom always became a little irritated – and his smiles a little fixed – when Amy brought up her abilities.

"I lied," Tom told her bluntly.

Amy appeared quite crestfallen, but it was Tom's curt dismissive attitude and not the actual lie that upset her. "I wanted a friend," she mumbled.

"You had friends," Tom replied emphatically. "You had lots of friends until you started _following me around!_"

Amy stared at him, tearfully. "You saved me from the monster," she said.

Tom returned her stare for a moment, rather taken aback. Finally, he levelled her with a chilly yet fairly indifferent look and stated, "You don't owe me for that. Older people are _supposed_ to take care of younger ones."

The brilliant smile that Amy bestowed upon him left Tom with the sinking feeling that she had completely failed to understand the important part of what he had been trying to tell her. He had no further chance to explain himself, though, as the staff had begun to call the children in to dine and Amy had bounded off as if she expected Tom to follow.

"Merda," Tom muttered to himself. This sentiment, however, was followed almost immediately by a yelp of pain as a hand closed around his ear and squeezed lightly.

"I'm certain you put a fair deal of effort into learning that," Miss Hackett informed him, "but that does not excuse foul language."

Tom winced.

* * *

The following Monday's late afternoon found Tom almost as he had been on the last: sitting on the steps of the orphanage door with his Latin grammar. However, whereas the previous Monday he had been focused upon his studies, on Monday the twenty-second Tom's attention was regularly – albeit unwillingly – focused on the group of children involved in a singing game near where he sat.

"When will you pay me?" sang the children at play. "Say the bells of Old Bailey."

Tom narrowed his eyes and attempted to return his focus to his Latin. The moment a lady's shoe came into view by his knees it became obvious that attempting to focus was pointless. Tom's eyes travelled up the well-formed leg (which was bare except for the long drawn line along the back that was supposed to represent a stocking's seam and make the lack of covering seem more decent) and the white skirt and blouse to find Doctor Elder looking down at him.

"When I grow rich," the children continued. "Say the bells of Shoreditch."

"I see Miss Benson is beginning to behave normally again," the doctor stated, nodding slightly toward the girl in question; who was singing and dancing with the other children. "After the exploring incident," Martha continued, with a rather odd note – that could have been either humour or disapproval – to her voice in regard the incident, "she rarely played with the other children."

Tom put down his book. "She'll only play with them as long as I'm near and in her view," he replied. "It's most annoying."

There was a long pause.

"I don't_ understand _it!" Tom exclaimed, frustrated. "First she turns out to have _my _abilities, then she follows me around _as if she __**likes me **_and… and I don't like it because she's stupid and little and ….girly and annoying." The monologue was momentarily interrupted by the stricken expression that crossed the little boy's face, then he continued; his frustration almost turning his exclamation into a wail, "But I_ don't _like it when she ignores me _either_!"

The doctor raised an impassive eyebrow.

Tom hugged his Latin grammar to his chest. "Jimmy Jacobs says we're going to get _married_," Tom told her. "Me and Amy, I mean." The boy then wrinkled his nose at the thought and continued, his tone having shifted from a loud, despairing wail to a soft – almost defeated – murmur, "Jimmy says that Amy follows me around because she loves me and that we're going to have to get married and then we'll have babies and die and our babies will end up in an orphanage too because they won't be wanted."

Martha considered this for a moment. "Jacobs is an idiot," she stated impassively.

"So Amy does_n't_ love me," Tom said and his voice expressed the sort of relief that could only come from situations such as that of a little boy who had just been assured that girls were not, in fact, infectious by default.

Doctor Elder looked impassively out at the children singing in the courtyard. "Define love," she said.

Tom blinked. "It's… when you …care about someone." he replied, somewhere between a statement and an inquiry. He knew what it was, of course, love was the feeling of love – but he had absolutely no idea how to go about putting the abstract concept into words.

"Define care," the doctor replied.

Tom wrinkled his nose again. Once again he found describing the abstract "Care is…" Tom began, before pausing; thoughtfully.

Martha, for her part, clearly respected the fact that Tom not only chose to take his time thinking about his answer, but also that he did not attempt to hide that he was doing so –how it was clear, in spite of her stoic and composed appearance, was also something too abstract to be put into words. As far as Tom was concerned, it was obvious – inexplicable, but simply (obviously) _there_.

"Care is when what happens to someone matters to you," Tom said finally.

Doctor Elder raised an eyebrow slightly. "Why does it matter to you?" she inquired.

An expression of utter bamboozlement appeared on Tom's face. "…Because you care?" Tom asked, hesitantly.

"That seems like a rather circular argument," Martha replied dispassionately.

"Circular?" Tom repeated.

Martha was silent.

Tom considered the term. "The sky is blue," he replied, "because it is not red – but the sky is only not red …because it is blue?"

The doctor inclined her head slightly.

Tom looked out at where Amy and the other children were still playing. "Love is an feeling," he stated firmly after a few moments of thought. "But I don't understand how this relates to not having to marry Amy."

Doctor Elder considered his unspoken question for a moment. "Maas," she said. "What happens when you buy something?"

Tom stared at her. "I do_n't_," he said.

The doctor's eyebrow quirked slightly and she rephrased the question: "What happens when someone buys something?"

"They…" Tom trailed off. He stared out at Amy as she span and laughed, for quite some time, with a frown creasing his brow and his lips pursed in thought. "They give something …important… to the other person and …get something they need," he finally concluded.

Martha nodded slightly. "The one gives the other something needed or wanted in exchange for something needed or wanted," she concurred. "That is called reciprocal altruism."

"Al-tru-is-um?" Tom repeated.

"Unless one counts true unrequited love, which is generally considered to be tragic by nature; a fact which naturally disqualifies it," a brief flicker of what might have been a smile crossed the doctor's face as she spoke, then it disappeared and she continued, "there is no such thing as altruism which is not reciprocal."

Tom looked up at her in confusion.

"Pure altruism would be giving something wanted or needed without any form of repayment," the doctor clarified. "However, we are taught to sympathise with others and therefore doing a 'good dead' – for no physical payment or favour in return – makes people believe that they are good people."

Tom frowned at the odd, almost bitter, detachment with which the doctor spoke – it was one of the few things he had noticed while trying to keep up with everything she was saying. "So…" he said hesitantly, "it's not really ever …altru…um… because people like thinking they're nice?"

The doctor nodded again.

"And…" Tom continued, struck by a thought, "people do nice things because they like feeling nice about themselves after?"

Martha nodded again.

"And this involves Amy, _how?_" Tom asked somewhat pointedly, his confusion and slight irritation no longer successfully held back by his curiosity.

"You want her around, but you dislike her as a person," Doctor Elder stated. "That is because what you like is the feeling of being wanted that her attachment gives you – she is irritating, but she gives you additional value."

"That's …altruism?" Tom asked.

"Reciprocal altruism," Martha stated. "As Amy most likely enjoys your company because she began associating you with safety after the cave incident."

"What?" Tom asked.

"You make her feel safe, she makes you feel wanted," the doctor said brusquely. "What you both like is not the other person, but the feelings caused by them. Thus: reciprocal altruism."

"So she doesn't love me," Tom concluded.

"She may," Doctor Elder replied calmly.

Tom gave her a frustrated and confused look.

"Love, to return to our first digression," Martha explained, "is a form of reciprocal altruism. It is feeling wanted in exchange for feeling wanted. Furthermore, as one's biological offspring are the only way a living thing can continue after it has died: as it continues in a small way in its child, even the most altruistic seeming sacrifices for the sake of one's child are – in fact – merely the selfish desire to continue existing. Love is ultimately selfish."

Tom stared at her for a very long time. "Why a doctor?" he finally inquired.

As impassive as ever, the doctor looked out at the orphans playing in their gray surroundings and said, "I was naïve once."

* * *

Tom was humming. It was not, in fact, because he was in a particularly good mood. It was the sort of dispassionate, absent-minded humming that occurs when someone is lost in thoughts which are vaguely related to the particular piece of music that thus begins to echo in their mind. In Tom's case, it was the nursery rhyme he had long since come to think of as Amy's, as it was undeniably her favourite and her near constant presence had resulted in the words being – for lack of a better term – stuck in his head for over a month. Tom was quite certain it had been over a month, in fact, because he had started associating the nursery rhyme with the girl in September – before Dennis had left – and he was fairly certain that in an hour or so it would cease to be the thirty-first of October.

In his life, Tom reasoned, he had nothing that was truly his own. His name had belonged to his father, what affection he might have from Martha was – like Mokey – given only to the image of her deceased brother, his clothes had been some other nameless orphan's before him and his abilities had been his special thing. The one thing he had been able to call his own …and then Amy had to have them too.

"When will that be," Tom murmured, no longer humming as much as softly singing. "Say the bells of Stepney."

Tom briefly considered punching his pillow, but he concluded it wouldn't be very satisfactory to hit something so soft and unlikely to break.

Thanks to _Amy_, he had nothing all of his own.

"I do not know," Tom murmured, "Says the great bell of Bow."

As he stared up at the ceiling – which wasn't really his either – he was struck by a thought. Thanks to Amy he might no longer have his abilities all to himself, but Amy only followed _him_ around. So, logically, he reasoned, he was the only one who had an Amy. An Amy – the only Amy – wasn't as nice to say he had, but it was better than having nothing.

As the little girl in question slipped into the room and then into the bed next to Tom, and as he absently began stroking her hair, he decided that having Amy wasn't like having Dennis back but that a sort-of friend of his own was good enough.

"So here comes a candle to light you to bed," Tom sang quietly. "And here comes a chopper to chop off your head."

* * *

_**A/N:**_

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** This story is never actually going to have what 'pushed him over the edge' – but the loss of his friendship with Dennis certainly has an impact. The loss of too many friends can have a negative impact on anyone. Although, in this case it's not just a case of one or the other needing to apologise: the problem for Tom is that Dennis turned on him (and his abilities) after something scary happened.

Well with such a glowing recommendation for it as that, I'll definitely join up when it becomes open to the public. I'll be sure to tell you my house and wand type. Are you a fan of a particular Trek, or all of them?

**To Megii of Mysteri OusStranger: **It's okay – as I've said to some of the others: I see reviews as a gift – if you find it difficult to know what to say you don't need to say anything. If you ever do have a question, though, please don't hesitate to ask. I'm glad you've been enjoying the story. Coincidences? I'm intrigued.

**To Dhelana Joie:** Indeed it will not, but judging what is said in the reviews many other people receive, it seems that most people don't realise that. I suppose it's not. I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations.

**To Hiei's Cute Girl:** Indeed it wouldn't take long before the peacocks were going slightly batty. However, I'm going to have to disagree about the snakes comment. Snakes hunt when they have to and are otherwise interested in sunbathing – so dark and twisted senses of humour are a completely human construction.

A freed king crab? Someone actually let it loose?

I can agree to that. In comparison to a lot of other stories on this site, the reviews I get for this story all seem to be of a much higher quality – and yours are no exception.

You're right about that, adult world seems to destroy that wonder that children have in the way they view the world.

A 3D horror movie? That's quite the complement. I'm glad it drew you in and that you liked it.

I'm also really glad to know that the mood fluidly travelled from one chapter to the next, I was quite worried that they wouldn't match up well.

I hope you're well.


	42. Back To Basically: December 31st, 1934

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Two: Back To Basically**

"Are you sure this is all the paperwork regarding the adoption?"

Mrs. Cole nodded tightly. "Quite certain, Sergeant," she stated. "It did all happen a bit faster than is entirely normal – although not faster than is acceptable – but they said they wanted their new son settled in comfortably before one of them would have to leave for a few weeks for business. It all seemed _normal_."

The sergeant nodded, making notes as he did. There was a tense, subdued feeling in the matron's office – as if everyone in the room had long since moved beyond shock and denial without actually experiencing them on the way to the unnatural calm that permeated. Even the little boy in the matron's chair appeared quiet and composed.

"So," Sergeant Brown said slowly, examining his notes. "Mister and Missus Millar, as they so fashioned themselves, drop their adopted son off in front of the police station last night with a letter – which the child was told to deliver to the police, but not to open – therein stating that they couldn't cope with the boy's nightmares, that the orphanage staff ought to have mentioned that before they finalized the adoption and that the child was therefore to be returned to the orphanage."

He paused before continuing, clearly still trying to organise all the events of the case in his head, "They told the child that they had some urgent business to complete and would pick him up when the letter hand been delivered. However through a separate report of a vehicle blocking the road, their …car – quite an expensive one, too, not good for fitting in or appropriate for a journalist's salary – was discovered, abandoned, near Vauxhall Station and in the car, which the boy identified, we found several items matching the description of those used by a pair of highly successful bank robbers who have robbed several banks in the past three months. On each occasion there was a distraction in the form of a child who couldn't find his parents while the robbers quietly threatened a teller and were handed the money. A woman would enter shortly after the bank robbers left and exclaim with relief that her son had been found. Jesus."

The little boy watched the adults in bafflement. He didn't really understand why they thought his new parents' car was so important or why they were going on about the robberies – it wasn't his parents' fault they had such bad timing.

Doctor Elder was standing in a corner of the room, listing and watching her old friend make notes and the matron bustle around sorting, and re-sorting, the relevant paperwork. As she had been silent ever since she had pronounced the child to be perfectly healthy, when she spoke it came as quite a surprise. "Was there not a similar set of robberies earlier in the year?" she inquired.

Sergeant Brown and Mrs. Cole turned to stare at her.

"In March if I recall the news correctly," Martha added, with a raised eyebrow. "The police in Liverpool realised it was a series of robberies by the same people because the same little girl was always described as being there looking for her parents – only for one of them to rush in shortly after the robbers left, to collect her."

Sergeant Brown frowned slightly, flipped his notepad open to a new page and scribbled down a list. Then he turned to the little boy and handed him the notepad. "If you don't mind telling me, young man," the sergeant said. "Do you recall if you got lost in these banks on these days?"

The little boy stared at the list for a long time. Then, hesitantly, he nodded. "Mummy wasn't very good at making sure I was with her," he told the adults, quite seriously, "but she was always very happy when she found me back and she would buy me an ice cream afterward because I was good and hadn't run off to look for her when I realised I couldn't find her or Daddy."

The boy seemed to be completely oblivious to the awkward silence of the three adults.

Sergeant Brown eventually nodded to the matron. "Perhaps it'd be best if you got him settled back in, for now, while we try to track down the …Millers," he told her. Then he turned and nodded to the doctor. "Marty," he acknowledged.

"Thomas," Martha replied.

Finally the sergeant moved to the door. "I can show myself out," he assured the adults and turned to look at the little boy in the chair one last time. "You've been very helpful," the sergeant said. "Thank you, Dennis."

* * *

Tom looked up sharply at the knock on his door. He knew it wasn't Amy – as she was cuddled up next to him on his bed, helping Mokey on his dangerous journey across the 'bedlands' (Tom was fairly certain she meant 'badlands', but wasn't going to argue) to rescue the beautiful princess Sockette (Tom hadn't even _known_ what to say in response to that) while he read. Therefore, he quickly grabbed the small bottle of Coca-Cola which Martha had bought him for his birthday and hid it under his bed.

Amy nearly fell over from the sudden movement of her human-pillow.

However, Tom very quickly straightened up again and, after repositioning his book, called out, "Come in!"

It was Mrs. Cole that opened the door. "Tom," she said, in a strange sort of tone he couldn't quite gauge.

Whatever the matron might have said next was cut off by a yelp from Tom – for the noble knight Sir Mokey had, with help from Amy, pounced on the sock-dragon guarding the princess Sockette… unfortunately, the sock-dragon was actually just the gray sock on Tom's left foot.

Amy stared at Tom, her expression was somewhere between expectant and concerned.

Tom considered this for a moment, then threw his head back and – with a dramatic flair – cried, "AH! My foot! Alas! Alas, my foot is dead! Goodbye poor foot, you had served me well!"

Amy giggled, clearly delighted by Tom's performance.

"Mister Riddle," Mrs. Cole said, sharply.

Tom immediately sat up and schooled his face into an appropriately serious expression. "Sorry, Ma'am," he said. "Is something wrong?"

The matron was silent for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words to explain the situation. "Tom," she said, finally, shutting the door as she took a step into the room, "I'm afraid you're going to be sharing this room again."

"Oh," Tom replied quietly. "What kind?" he asked. It was, perhaps, not the most polite way to inquire, but as the Disturbed room was reserved for children who were physically disabled, suffering from some form of mental problem or prone to disturbing the other children, it was the obvious question to ask.

Mrs. Cole sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She could feel a headache starting already and the day was not even half-way over. "Tom," she said again, struggling to keep her irritation with the boy in check because she was quite aware that the news she had to give him would no doubt be upsetting – she knew the boy was a troublemaker, but she wasn't fool enough to believe that troublemakers had no feelings. Unfortunately, dealing with feelings wasn't exactly her strongest point.

For his part, Tom recognised in the way she had spoken that the matter was clearly very serious indeed. He pulled up his legs, which had been stretched out down the bed, so that he was sitting with his legs crossed. "Would you like to sit down?" he asked, gesturing at the space he'd made.

It was clear to Eleanor that Tom had learned both that line and the gesture from watching adults and she couldn't quite help but be amazed by the unasked for show of maturity by the little troublemaker. She sat down.

"I shan't bother them about their problem," Tom told her; using the most adult-sounding language he could think of. "No matter how strange they are," he continued, quite aware that the matron was staring at him in surprise, "I promise."

Then, with a self-depreciating smile, he shrugged one shoulder ever so slightly and said, "Besides, I'm strange too."

* * *

Tom was frustrated. Not terribly frustrated, but frustrated nonetheless. Normally, when a child had a birthday at the orphanage the matron would have everyone sing _Happy Birthday _to them (usually at breakfast), but with the sudden return of Dennis Bishop, Tom's birthday had been practically forgotten. Tom's birthday was always a bit confusing, since it was also New Years Eve, but with the addition of the police delivering Dennis back and the staff needing to sort out his bedding and clothing and make certain that the returned child was well, Tom's birthday had been overlooked. Tom understood, of course, that it wasn't meant badly and that such things simply happen, but that didn't necessarily mean that he had to be happy about it.

Tom Riddle was frustrated. He was also decidedly nervous. Dennis had answered every attempt of Tom's, through the day, to start a conversation with the word 'basically'. It was becoming extremely annoying.

Most of the time Dennis had stayed away from him while at the same time had watched Tom from a distance, as Tom played with Amy. As bedtime was finally upon them, Tom knew that he would get his first chance that day to talk to Dennis without Dennis having somewhere to disappear to or a distraction to use to escape. As far as Tom could tell, Dennis was still angry with him. Consequently, Tom was nervous.

It certainly didn't help that when he'd sent Amy to find out what Mrs. Cole wasn't telling him about why Dennis was back – which had been shortly before lunch – the little girl had returned with the news that Mrs. Cole had been in her office drinking from a makes-people-funny bottle and muttering about 'should have realised', 'should have told them', 'all my salt' and 'caution next time'.

Although Tom had been impressed by how much the little girl had remembered – and the fact that she hadn't been caught – he had barely remembered to praise her efforts, so distracted was he by the implications of what had been reported to him. However, he had remembered and he had managed to wait with disappearing into his thoughts until he had sent the newly dubbed 'Vauxhall Road Regular' to brush her teeth and go to bed.

Tom was a smart boy and he knew that there was absolutely no reason that Dennis might need to come with a warning label other than the nightmares the boy had regularly suffered since the cave incident (apart, of course, from the fact that Dennis was not one of Martha's medicine bottles). Therefore, if the criminal-parent-people had left Dennis because of the nightmares, then Dennis was going to be even unhappier with Tom than he had been before he left. Tom wasn't sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, a Dennis had always been better than an Amy in the past. On the other hand… Dennis had turned on him – used the same cruel words as the other children – the first time they had come across a real problem and Tom didn't want to spend the rest of his friendship with someone wondering when he was next going to be abandoned.

Tom sat on his bed and tried to appear nonchalant.

* * *

"I take it you're still mad at me," the older boy stated.

The younger boy clenched his teeth. _Does he never stop talking?_ Dennis wondered bitterly.

"I have to assume you're still mad at me, see," Tom continued in the darkness, "because you aren't answering and the dark has a decidedly unhappy feeling to it. It's not me," the irritatingly perky boy continued, "since it is my birthday and it wouldn't be a happy birthday if I wasn't happy. Do you agree?"

"Basically," Dennis muttered. He could practically feel Tom rolling his eyes on the other side of the room. A long pause followed Dennis' statement and for a brief time he actually began to hope that Tom had given up and gone to sleep.

"I don't see what you're so upset about," Tom's dulcet tones informed him from somewhere on the other side of the dark room. "After all, it's not like not having parents is some great loss."

Dennis bit his lip to keep from screaming at the boy on the other side of the room.

Tom, seemingly unaware that he was making Dennis seriously consider throttling him, continued his pleasant monologue, "I mean, think about it: all the children who come to the orphanage are miserable when they first arrive – just after they had parents who gave them rules and often were always on hand to see what they were up to and so on – and a few months after coming here, where there aren't enough adults to watch everyone all the time and there certainly aren't any parents, they start smiling! Clearly this is a sign that parents aren't as important as we're made to believe."

"That's complete nonsense," Dennis said.

There was a brief pause, which gave Dennis the feeling that Tom was wrinkling his nose, and then the older boy said, "Yes, it is, isn't it?" There was another pause, in which Dennis was certain that Tom was smirking (the older boy was clearly as infuriating as ever), then Tom added, "But it made you start talking again."

Dennis was flabbergasted. "I… I… you. You! Argh!"

Tom's laughter seemed to make the room feel slightly warmer.

There was a rap on the outside of their door and a voice called in, "You are little boys, not little owls. Night time is for sleeping!" The adult clearly waited a moment to hear if they were going to ignore the warning, because a second or two passed before the sound of footsteps started and then began to fade in the distance.

"Adults," Tom said wryly, and the shifting sounds and vague changes of the shadows in the dark that accompanied the statement suggested to Dennis that the other boy had twisted to look in his direction and possibly propped himself up on his elbows.

"Don't you _want _parents, Tom?" Dennis asked, no longer able to keep the question contained to his mind alone. The long pause that followed the question began to unnerve him.

"I don't know if I see the point," Tom said slowly, "of caring for someone who will eventually abandon you."

Dennis winced. It was painfully obvious to him, from something in Tom's tone, that the older boy was thinking less of parents and more of Dennis when he said that. After a moment, Dennis decided that this was really quite unfair of Tom, since _Tom_ had replaced him with Amy Benson; of all people. _Maybe I should be friends with Rosie,_ Dennis thought bitterly, _then we'll see how much Tom likes other people taking his friends. _Aloud, however, he merely made a vague noise.

"It's a pity we need parents, or adults, to live," Tom told the darkness, thoughtfully. "We would have much more fun without them."

Dennis' eyes widened slightly as an idea struck him. "Does that mean we don't need parents if we're dead?" he asked, curiously.

The sound of sheets rustling, presumably because Tom was shrugging, came again. "I shouldn't see why," the older boy stated. "Rosie certainly doesn't."

"Maybe I would be better off like Rosie," Dennis suggested. "That way I wouldn't upset any more parents."

A choking sound came through the darkness. "W-what makes you think you _upset them_?" Tom spluttered.

"It must be me," Dennis replied logically. "After all, neither set of parents wanted me."

"That's stupid," Tom told him. "You are _so stupid_. If there was really something wrong with you, you wouldn't _be here_."

Dennis considered this, as he turned in his bed to look at the other boy's vague outline, thoughtfully. "What do you mean?"

The sound of Tom shifting in the dark punctuated the conversation. "Well," the older boy said slowly, as if the topic made him uncomfortable. "If there had really, really been something wrong with you one of them would have strangled you – like the dead boy in the inn we stayed at."

There was no need for Tom to specify which inn, they'd only ever stayed in one in their lives. Dennis winced at the memory of it.

"Maybe they didn't," the younger boy pointed out. "Maybe he did it himself."

There was something in the silence that strongly suggested to Dennis that Tom was wrinkling his nose again.

"Why would _anyone_ do _**that**_?" Tom asked, his tone betraying a mix of disbelief, horror and confusion.

Dennis shrugged. "Weeeellll," he said, "Rosie doesn't have a bedtime."

There was a strange noise and then Tom's pillow hit him in the face. Dennis yelped. Then he picked up the pillow and flung it back at where Tom most likely was. The cry of surprise that followed told him that he had hit his target.

Tom threw his pillow back at Dennis, only for Dennis to pitch his own back at Tom at the same time. The two pillows narrowly missed each other and while Dennis got a pillow to the stomach, Tom escaped being hit.

The sound of shattering glass made both of them freeze.

Dennis clutched the pillow he'd been hit with, he could feel his breathing begin to speed up and he was too busy glancing around desperately in the darkness to notice that he was shaking.

"What are you boys doing in there?" Doctor Elder asked sharply from the next room.

"Playing!" Tom called out.

"It's the middle of the night," the doctor told them sternly from the other side of the door. "You ought to be _sleep_ing."

"Sorry!" Tom called, and Dennis felt he was far too cheerful about it.

"Sleep!" the doctor reprimanded them again. Then Dennis heard the sound of her footsteps as she began to walk away.

"T-that noise?" Dennis asked, not quite able to keep his voice from trembling.

"Was the glass bottle under my bed being hit by the pillow and crashing into the wall," Tom told him – and Dennis couldn't tell, in the darkness, if the other boy was sneering at him for being scared or just mildly irritated. "Don't be scared."

"It's your fault," Dennis muttered bitterly.

"What?" Tom replied sharply – and Dennis was fairly certain that Tom had actually sat up straight in his bed and turned to him when he'd spoken.

Instead of replying, Dennis lay down in his bed and pulled up the blankets.

"Oh, I see," Tom said, and Dennis could hear a near frantic anger in his barely controlled voice. "You're blaming _me_," the older boy continued. "You think that if you hadn't gone on an adventure with me you wouldn't have had any nightmares and your adoptive parents would still _want you_."

"Basically," said Dennis.

He could hear the older boy groan from the other side of the room, then came the sound of Tom throwing himself flat against his bed and rolling over. "And we're _back_ to _'basically'_," the older boy muttered to himself. "What a wonderful birthday."

* * *

_**A/N:**_

**To Hiei's Cute Girl:** Actually, since the natural method most snakes use when scared is to attempt to scare away whatever is frightening them, it is possible that the snake is able to recognise the humans it sees regularly and reacting naturally to the perceived threat of those it doesn't know.

This leaves me with the terribly bizarre mental image of a waiter standing at a table and saying "I'm terribly sorry, Madam. I will inform you as soon as we manage to recapture your dinner".

Your mind's not twisted: that actually was a compliment.

I can't say I know what resident evil is, but I'm glad to know that the chapters' moods have been fluid.

Actually, it's not distorted at all. The stance Martha gives is a perfectly acceptable philosophical viewpoint. It's actually older than the idea of 'altruism'. It does assume that all beings always act out of selfishness – even if they no longer realise it – but that since selfishness often in this case results in 'everyone wins', selfishness is not inherently a bad thing. It's only the post-'altruism' ideals that associate 'selfish' with 'bad'.

I hope you've enjoyed this chapter.

**To Sarafina:** I'm glad that you've been enjoying the story.

**To Shebali:** I cannot say how pleased I am that you find that ending creepy. You're right to think she sounds more jaded than usual, but it's more a case of her expressing it more on this occasion than the subject being a sore point.

If you're wishing that then it means my attempt to make Tom a sympathetic character in this story is succeeding. Unfortunately, however, as Voldemort's story is ultimately a tragic one, I don't think that's going to happen any time soon. Sorry.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** It is little boy logic, isn't it? I'm glad that you found that sweet and that the marriage bit made you laugh. As for Amy? I'm not telling.

However, I'm afraid I may have to have you assassinated. As a loyal Deep Space Niner, a moderate fan of Voyager and a person in a love-to-hate-it situation with Enterprise, this is only just. But I'll agree the Animated Series was a waste of airtime (don't worry, I won't really have you assassinated – to each their own and all that).

**To akatsukirulez:** I'm pleased to hear you think so highly of my work and I hope you have continued reading long enough to actually receive this response.


	43. The Hanging Man: January 1st, 1935

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

_**Important A/N:**_ I am aware that one of the major points in this chapter may seem a little hard to believe for some of you. Sadly, however, there have been multiple instances of children doing this – and doing this in a way which clearly rules out it being accidental. The youngest recorded children to have done this were _six year olds_. However, the children who have done this at the age of six are generally anomalies – children who do this so young are more likely to do so at eight or nine years of age, when they generally begin to understand that it is permanent. If you check the conversation between Tom and Dennis in the previous chapter, you'll be able to see the signs that Dennis is one of the anomalous incidents – as he was only seven years and three months old – but, again, sadly this is a rare but real occurrence.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Three: The Hanging Man**

There was something cold touching his cheek. Tom's eyelids fluttered and he tried, still asleep, to squirm further under his blankets. Even though he was asleep, some subconscious part of him could tell that it was far colder than usual and so he did his best to bury himself in his bedding. The cold thing continued to drag along his upturned cheek …through the bedding.

Tom's eyelids slowly fluttered, then opened, and he peered out from beneath the top end of his blankets.

His mother stared back at him.

As he was still more than half asleep, Tom merely made a soft noise of recognition and moved to curl up under his blankets again. That was when his mother began frantically gesturing toward him and toward the other side of the room. Tom blinked at her. After a long pause, in which Tom's eyes tried to adjust to the faint not-quite-light of the pre-dawn hours and the glow of his deceased mother, he looked around the room.

Dennis' bed had been stripped of its sheets again. The majority of the cold was coming in through the open window and a mix of knotted together sheets and blankets stretched from where they had been tied onto the wardrobe to the ledge of the open window.

Tom groaned. He was still about half-asleep as he shuffled toward the window, across the cold floor, and so his thought process was not exactly… comprehensible, but if one were to give an approximation it would be something akin to: _Idiot. Stupid. Cold. They won't want him back. Stupid. Not even if he finds them. Stupid. _

Carefully, because he did not want to touch the cold window frame and ledge, Tom leaned out, somewhat perturbed by the fact that his mother had followed him, and looked down.

One could almost hear the universe counting '_One… two… three!'_ as his mind processed what he saw.

"_**MAARRTHAAAAAAA!" **_

Several things then happened in quick succession. In the infirmary, Doctor Elder dropped the glass medicine bottle she was holding. On another storey, Eleanor Cole looked up sharply in the direction whence the scream that disturbed the pre-dawn silence had come. Many of the children began to stir in their beds. Tom stumbled backward. Apparently unbothered by the broken glass at her feet, Doctor Elder sprinted across the infirmary. The matron opened her office door and made for the stairs. Tom curled up on his bed, still staring at the window, and Doctor Elder entered the 'secret passage' between the infirmary and the Disturbed Room.

The sheet-rope that blocked her way when she opened the wardrobe door gave her a moment's pause, but the doctor quickly recovered from the shock and ducked under it. A single glance in Tom's direction told her where to look for the cause of the screaming – for Tom had yet to divert his wide-eyed stare from the open window – and she stuck her head out into the chilly morning air. A moment later she pulled herself fully into the room again.

"Touch nothing," the doctor advised. Then, with the sort of haste that would rarely be credited to so composed a person, she exited the room through the main door – shutting it firmly behind her – and then ran.

Several staircases, a near miss with the matron (who was going the other direction) and a mad dash down the black and white tiled corridor later, Doctor Elder skidded into the matron's office and grabbed the phone.

She barely waited for the operator to speak before commanding, "Get me the police."

Approximately one and a half storeys above, a curious bird – or, perhaps, merely a hungry one – landed on Dennis Bishop; who still hung suspended from the sheets hanging out the window, just as he had been when he died.

* * *

"Why mustn't we look outside?" one little girl asked, staring up at the staff table curiously.

"Because you mustn't," Jonathan Stone told her.

There was a great deal of unhappy grumbling from the orphans, all of whom had been urged from their beds and into the dining hall – where they all sat, contemplating their unusually early breakfast and the strange orders issued by the matron the moment she had stepped out of the Disturbed Room.

It was most aggravating for the children, since they had been mysteriously roused so soon after a terrible scream had been heard and they knew that the police had arrived before the sun had even risen and yet they were not allowed to know what was happening.

* * *

"Dead about five hours, I should think," the coroner said. "Until I can examine it more closely I shan't be able to be more precise, but the level or rigor mortis..."

"Cause of death?" the inspector inquired.

"Strangulation," Janvier, the coroner, replied. "Probably suicide."

On the inspector's left, Sergeant Brown frowned. "What makes you say that? And may I remind you that saying who did it isn't part of your job?"

Clive Janvier tilted his head slightly and pointed to the cadaver's neck. "The pattern of the bruising reminds me more of what happens in execution by hanging when the neck doesn't break than murder by ligature strangulation," he explained. "Now, certain fluids will keep moving for a time after death, so it is possible that bruising implicative of a struggle will appear, but for the moment everything from the shape of the furrows in the neck to the lack of other injuries, barring those obviously caused by birds, seems to suggest that there was no struggle."

"He could have been strangled while he slept," the inspector countered, trying very hard not to look at the slightly pecked-at tongue which protruded from the dead boy's mouth.

"With the sheets he was lying on?" the coroner dryly replied.

"We shall have them fingerprinted," the inspector stated.

"He was abandoned by his adoptive parents – who used him as a distraction in bank robberies – the night before last," Sergeant Brown stated. "There's more motive for suicide here than for murder."

The inspector looked over his notes again. "Doctor… Elder, stated that she heard ripping sounds at one point in the night, but that the boys had previously divided up the room by placing strips of masking tape on the floor: she assumed they were re-dividing it and ignored the noise," he said. "She was awake all night tending to a child with the flu and a bad cough and says she didn't hear anything else. S'pose we can't expect a woman to notice everything of importance." The inspector sighed and gestured for the body to be removed. "Any news regarding the bank robbers?"

Sergeant Brown blinked at the sudden inquiry. "No, Sir," he replied. "None yet."

"Pity," the inspector replied. "I'd like to see justice done for this one."

* * *

A cup of tea was placed abruptly in front of Eleanor. She looked up in surprise. "Tea?" she asked.

"Arsenic," Martha dryly replied as she sat down.

"You shouldn't make that sort of joke," Mrs. Cole told her, her voice shaking slightly.

"Have you eaten?" the doctor inquired.

"I had lunch," Eleanor said, brushing off the question. She took a few heavy breaths. "The police say it was probably suicide," she stated, staring away into space as she did.

Doctor Elder's head bobbed ever so slightly. "That makes sense," she replied.

Eleanor then spun around to face her, wearing a plaintive expression as she did. "You don't think…" the young matron said, "that… that the Riddle boy might have…"

"That does_n'__**t**_ make sense," the doctor replied sternly.

Eleanor nodded shakily and clutched her teacup. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, that was what I thought."

* * *

"Dennis?" Tom inquired, looking around their room. Technically, he wasn't supposed to go back in until the police said it was acceptable to do so, but he was trying to find out where Dennis was hiding and he figured a very quick look around couldn't hurt. Dennis had always had an interesting sense of humour, after all, so he was probably hiding where he knew Tom wasn't supposed to go.

Tom turned around thoughtfully and then he noticed that the blankets of his bed were hanging off to one side, hiding the space beneath his bed. Tom smirked: it was – after all – a fairly obvious hiding place. Surely at any moment, Tom figured, a pale hand would lash out from under the bed to grab his ankle.

Tom knelt by his bed and tossed the blankets up with a yell of, "Ha!" but the space beneath his bed was empty.

Tom frowned, stood, returned the blankets to their original position so no one would notice he'd been there and slipped back out the door. As he stood in the corridor he looked around in exasperation.

"If I was Dennis," he asked himself, "where would I be?"

"Riddle!" a voice called from the stairs.

Tom turned around, surprised.

Jimmy Jacobs, who was twelve and very tall, hurried over; there was a peculiar glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Which is it?" the older boy asked as soon as he had reached Tom.

"Which is what?" Tom asked, the distrust he had felt for the older boy ever since he'd learned that he would not – in fact – have to marry Amy clear in his tone.

Jacobs rolled his eyes. "Did he kill himself or did you do it?" he asked, leaning forward with the faintly malicious grin of one who is supremely confident that they are either about to hear a particularly juicy bit of gossip or about to watch someone else become extremely flustered.

Tom, however, kept his expression blank. "And if I did?" he asked calmly.

Jacobs' broad grin flickered – his mouth dropping momentarily into a sort of upside down grimace before returning to a, less confident looking, grin – as he tried to figure out whether or not Tom was joking.

"I didn't," Tom added, tonelessly. "I wouldn't have left a body. He would have disappeared – like the orphanage cat."

Jacobs paled and his grin slide completely from his face as he stared at the younger boy, almost unable to believe what he was hearing from the eight year old. It certainly didn't help Jacobs' to feel calm: the rumour amongst the older orphans was that Chuck the cat had been chopped up the week before to be the rashers they'd had for breakfast.

Then, with a terribly earnest expression on his face, Tom stepped closer – so close that the two boys were practically breathing on each other – and asked, "Help me practise?"

Jacobs jerked backward, stumbling in his alarm. His mouth opened and closed without words escaping it and once he managed to tear his eyes away from Tom's unblinking gaze, he glanced frantically to both of his sides before looking back at Tom. Then, with a shakily spat exclamation of "Freak!" he turned and hurried back down the stairs.

Tom smiled broadly at the retreating boy, only for his smile to disappear when the matron – who had nearly been knocked down by the fleeing twelve year old – appeared at the top of the stairs mere moments later and gave him a very stern look.

"I didn't do anything!" Tom exclaimed, in a strange mix of innocence and exasperation.

* * *

Tom had discovered a great many things by the time the children were usually sent to wash up for dinner. The first was that the adults were becoming increasingly hard to avoid, since all of them seemed to want to make sure that he wasn't too terribly upset by finding Dennis that morning – although none of them seemed to take it well when he wasn't horrified and tearful – and while Tom did like the attention, by the eighth time he was stopped by a well-meaning adult, it was beginning to become annoying. The second thing he had learned was that having Amy around acted as a shield against such conversations. One of the most recent things Tom had discovered was that Amy whined incessantly when she was hungry. Nevertheless, it had taken Tom five minutes of cajoling and pleading to convince her to go wash up for dinner without him.

Tom had also learned a great deal about Dennis. Namely, he knew where Dennis _was__**n't**_. Dennis wasn't under his bed. Dennis wasn't in their room. Dennis wasn't in the infirmary, nor was he under the infirmary beds. Dennis wasn't in the nursery. Dennis wasn't in the kitchen, nor was he in the matron's office, nor the attic classroom, nor the basement classroom, nor in Tom's secret place behind the classroom bookshelf. Dennis wasn't anywhere.

Tom had discovered a great many things by the time the children were usually sent to wash up for dinner.

"Tom?" Miss Mary asked, surprised, as she led her older charges out of the nursery to go to dinner.

…Tom had yet to learn how to successfully hide from adults.

Mary frowned and walked over to Tom, who was sitting at the top of the stairs. "Tom, sweetie," she asked, "what are you doing?"

"I'm waiting for Dennis," the boy replied. "He should return soon."

Mary paled and pulled the little girl she was holding closer to her dark blue cardigan, looking at Tom with great sorrow and pity in her eyes as she did. "Tom," she began, her voice cracking. "Tom," she began again. "Dennis… Dennis isn't coming back, Tom. Dennis is…" her voice and trembling expression failed her and she trailed off.

"In Heaven with the angels?" Tom suggested.

"Tom," Mary said, her voice pained. "I'm afraid that people who… who decide to end their lives before God sends for them they… Tom, they don't go to Heaven."

Tom nodded. "Then he should be here soon," Tom said decisively.

"Tom," Mary said, as gently as she could. "Dennis is dead: he _isn't _coming back."

Tom looked up at her thoughtfully. He considered trying to explain that both Martha – who said there was nothing after death – and Mary – with her talk of Heaven and Hell – were wrong because he had seen Rosie and his mother about the orphanage on many occasions. He also considered pointing out that you weren't supposed to come back from adoption either, but that was exactly what Dennis did. Eventually he decided against it, since adults could be so stupid about some things.

Mary, who seemed to have noticed him come to some sort of decision, reached out and offered him her free hand. "Come on," she said. "Let's go to dinner."

Tom accepted. Dennis would appear when he was ready to appear.

* * *

The mood in the staff room was sombre. Although the entire staff – as if by some unspoken agreement – had assembled therein after the children had all been sent to bed, the only noises in the room were the regular sounds of breathing, the drinking of various beverages and the constant scribbling of pen on paper. The matron had spent the majority of the night going over and over the finances and none of the staff quite dared to interrupt her by speaking.

In the distance, a telephone began to ring.

As if one, the staff tensed. Finally, Harold Cole stood from his chair and shuffled past his son and daughter-in-law and out of the room. After he shut the door the not-quite-silence resumed as each of the staff were lost in their own thoughts. They remained that way until some twenty minutes later, when Harold Cole shuffled back into the room as steadily as his tired old legs could manage.

"That was Sir John Blackwood," Harold told his colleagues. He paused for a moment, temporarily overcome by wheezing, then continued, "He wished to express his condolences and assure us that he would handle the financial aspect of the boy's funeral."

In the corner of the staffroom, Eleanor put down her pen and placed her face in her hands with a murmur which sounded distinctly like it could have been "Thank Heavens".

Harold coughed. "He also wished to inform us," the elderly man stated, "that _Lady _Blackwood will not be able to give the children their art lesson this coming weekend, as she is too overcome by emotion and shock from what has happened." He then snorted, although it was hardly necessary – the tone he had used made it perfectly clear what he thought of that.

"That's shit," Henry Cole suddenly exclaimed – startling many of the staff as he did, for he was usually such a quiet man. "That is such fucking shit. She barely even knew the boy!"

"You've had enough to drink," Jonathan Stone told him sternly. "The lady cannot help it if she has delicate feelings."

"Delicate feelings," Henry repeated mockingly. "Is that why she left you for the peacock?"

Jonathan's face darkened and his hands tensed on the armrests of his chair.

"A peacock?" Simon Hughes interrupted, thoughtfully. "I always thought he looked more like a flamingo." Then he smiled, in a fashion that made him look almost clown-like, at the incredulous stares he was receiving. "It's the nose," he stated, in a humorous justification.

Mary smiled somewhat bleakly at the joke. "Am I the only one," she inquired softly, "who thinks there's something we really ought to talk about?"

"The boy is dead," Harold stated solemnly. "That cannot be changed by talking about it."

Mary made a quiet, nearly broken, noise and began to rock slightly back and forth on the couch. Almost immediately, Simon shifted so that he was closer to her and wrapped an arm around her. Internally, he had decided that his jumper was going to be soaked for a good cause. At the same time Henry and Eleanor shared a sorrowful look – they remembered all too well that Harold had taken much the same attitude when Samantha had died.

Martha put her glass down, somewhat more forcefully than usual, and stood. "I'm going to check on the brats," she said coldly. "There's still one up there with the flu."

After she had stalked out of the room, Jonathan reached over and lifted the glass from the table that was between his chair and that which the doctor had occupied. He lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed, wrinkled his nose and put the glass down again.

* * *

When Martha reached the infirmary, she found Tom wide awake in his temporary bed – as no one thought it was a good idea for him to spend the night in his room, after what had happened – and holding Amy in his arms. His grip, as far as the doctor could tell, was only minutely too tight. The girl herself had not noticed, though, since she was fast asleep.

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"It's so she doesn't kill herself," Tom whispered, when he noticed the look.

Martha's arched eyebrow moved higher.

"I don't understand why he didn't come back," Tom added, his voice becoming slightly louder with unspoken confusion, grief and frustration. "I looked and looked and he didn't come back."

"Death is final, Tom," Martha said. "I cannot explain your mother or Rosie, but death is final. No matter what you may have thought, no matter what Dennis may have thought, he isn't coming back." After a pause, she added, "Go to sleep."

"I won't!" Tom snapped, pulling Amy closer in a reflexive movement. "Dennis was _happy_ last night – we were laughing – and he was _dead_ in the morning. I was sleeping for _hours _with his _**body **__hanging out my window!_ I won't sleep!"

Martha spoke more gently than was normal for her, when she replied, "There is nothing to fear from a dead body."

"Easy for you to say," Tom said immediately. "They don't chase you."

Martha momentarily quirked an eyebrow and tilted her head left in a sort of sideways nod. "True enough," she conceded. Then, thoughtfully, she added, "I believe I taught you how to play Poker, once."

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** I'm glad to know you weren't expecting that. These last four chapters have sort of been a case of me grabbing you readers and shaking you around. Hopefully I haven't scared you all off.


	44. Tomb and Tome: Jan 5 & 7, Mar 16, 1935

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad. I also do not own: _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (it's Oscar Wilde's), _Frankenstein_ (Mary Shelley's), _The Unseen Playmate_ (Robert Louis Stevenson's).

**A/N:** I am sorry that it's taken me so long to get around to posting again. However, I do believe I had mentioned that I would likely be unable to keep writing for a while because I was going to be on holiday in Europe. If, by some unfortunate oversight, I did forget to mention it: I am truly sorry. I didn't mean to leave you all, erm, hanging.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Four: Tomb and Tome**

"When do you think they'll come and arrest him?" one of the children asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Tom paused, grasping Amy firmly to insure she did not continue walking, and leaned against the orphanage wall to listen instead of continuing his walk. He had been in the process of taking Amy for a walk around the building – after all, in spite of the cold, it was a perfectly nice Saturday and (while simply walking in circles around the building was very dull) it did satisfy Amy's desire to do more than simply sit around reading all day.

"Hopefully soon," one of the other children – one of the older children, judging by their voice – replied. "He practically _admitted _to Jim Jacobs that he was the one who made Chuck the cat disappear." The boy paused for a moment, then quickly added, "Not that I'm not glad that the horrid animal is gone, but I preferred the cat over the creep."

Another boy laughed. "That's easy enough for you to say, Ben," he replied, "but you've never had that cat bring you a dead mouse in the middle of the night."

"And _you_ don't have to sit next to the creep in class," the boy identified as Ben argued.

On their side of the wall, Amy frowned and gave Tom a hug. Tom remained stiff in her arms: he was too busy tensely listening to the older children to pay her much attention.

"Do you really think he'll be arrested, Ben?" the first child, who sounded slightly younger than his companions, asked.

"I'm sure of it," Ben replied – unaware that just around the corner Tom was seriously restraining himself from jumping out and yelling at him.

"The police always need someone to blame," Ben continued. "After all, they arrested father in the middle of mother's funeral, didn't they?"

Tom got the impression that the two other boys had nodded, but he couldn't actually see them, so he couldn't be sure.

"They didn't let him finish his reading either," a fourth child, who sounded significantly younger than the others, chirped. "They left the book of poems on the ground and everything!"

"Charlie!" the boy called Ben exclaimed – which made Tom quite certain that the pair were brothers (he probably should have known, but he couldn't be bothered to keep track of all the other children and their histories).

"My parents didn't have poems read at their funeral," the first child said thoughtfully.

"Maybe it's different in different funerals…" the third child suggested.

"Or maybe if you weren't very nice you don't get anyone but the priest reading for you!" Charlie interrupted.

Tom didn't wait to hear the rest of the conversation – he knew all too well that the other children would just consider him even more disturbing if he was caught eavesdropping – and instead quietly directed Amy back the way they had come, with murmured promises of playing what Amy had dubbed 'the floating game'. His mind, however, was focused on something far more pressing than the other children's taunts: he wanted to know who – if anyone – would read at_ Dennis'_ funeral. He wasn't going to ask, though, since adults could be terribly stupid about things when they involved dead people.

* * *

"You are no_t _dying," the doctor exclaimed in exasperation. Her patient cringed.

Tom, who had just stepped into the infirmary, belatedly began to wonder if that moment really was the best time to try the doctor's patience with an 'unnecessary display of vulgar sentimentality' (whatever that was). Unfortunately, he'd already been spotted.

"What is _he_ doing here?" the girl on the main 'examination bed' exclaimed.

"Control your temper," Doctor Elder admonished, tonelessly. Then, without turning to check who had entered, she added: "Maas; out".

"I just wanted to borrow a book," Tom insisted, although there seemed to be very little to insist about. Somehow, he seemed to know that his best chance of success was to say as little as possible.

Martha pointed at the door which led from the infirmary into her private room. "You know which cabinet the bookshelf is," she told him. "Leave through the door to the corridor when you have found what you want."

Tom shrugged to himself and followed her directions. The last thing he heard as he shut the door between the infirmary and the doctor's bedroom was the doctor coldly informing her patient that she was suffering from the rags, not the apocalypse.

* * *

It had not taken Tom a long time to find what he wanted: Martha only possessed two books marked poetry – although the last three golden letters must have long since worn off the first book. The second book of poetry's cover announced that it was written by the Mister Stevenson that Dennis had adored for his pirate story (Tom had been significantly less impressed by the adventure of Jim Hawkins and was not entirely sure he_ wanted_ to bother with the 'significantly more thought-provoking' other novel – something about a Mister Jackal and Mister Hyena, or the like – which Martha had once offered to lend to him).

Tom pulled the two volumes of poetry out of the shelf. However, as he did so he noticed another book squished into the very back of the bookshelf: half-hidden by the shelf itself, as it had clearly been pushed as out-of-sight as possible, it was lodged between the third shelf and the back of the bookshelf. Tom frowned, well aware that Martha was not in the habit of treating books in such a disgraceful manner (she _always_ used that term regarding badly treated books) and that she was far too good at being tidy – something Tom always struggled with – for it to have happened by accident. The young boy tilted his head to the side and considered the mysterious book. Technically it wasn't his business, but Martha _had_ said – or practically said – that he could take whichever book or books he wanted, as long as he didn't disturb her patient. However, trying to dislodge it would certainly result in a loud crash. On the other hand, Martha was always encouraging him to practice and study his abilities and shifting everything just-so to retrieve the book would be good practice of fine movements…

He had quickly been able to return (books in hand) to his room. It was only after he sat down on his bed, with his prizes, that he discovered that the first book of poetry contained remarkably little poetry. In Tom's case, the remark was an unintelligible noise of frustration. Instead this Edgar Allen fellow's book of poetry consisted mainly of confusing short stories which were, in Tom's opinion, almost impossible to follow – and Tom soon threw the book aside (onto the other end of his bed) with another frustrated noise.

The second book of poetry – the one by the pirate-writer-person that Dennis had loved so much – was a significant improvement, in Tom's opinion. For one thing, it actually contained poetry. In fact, Tom had so many poems to choose from (although some were very long and had a few too many big, strange words) that he struggled to find one that was applicable – not in the least because he wasn't really sure what _was_ applicable. Nevertheless, he eventually chose one that seemed to suit the occasion best – it was about children and playing and friends who couldn't be seen (and maybe that assurance would even convince Dennis to come back?). Tom was quite certain that Denny would like it – even without pirates in it.

Tom marked the page the poem was on (the doctor had given him a bookmark many months earlier in order to prevent him from bending the corners of her books' pages) and smiled contentedly – albeit with faint sorrow – to himself. It was, however, at that point that his eyes alighted on the mystery tome which he had so carefully removed from its hiding place in the back of the bookshelf. He hesitantly, and wearing an expression that was at once curious and of curiosity as he did so, reached over and picked it up.

It seemed to Tom to be a terribly old book – perhaps that was why he mentally titled it a 'tome', which he knew was some kind of old (or was it big?) book – and the cover was stained and faded from sunlight and ill-use. More hesitantly still, he gently opened the cover. In a bold, yet somewhat overly-decorative, script – which, at first glance, Tom thought might have been written by a male hand with a fairly modern Waterman pen – someone had inserted a brief message. Tom frowned at it, for the decorative writing on the weak page made it very hard to read and – to his surprise – he was suddenly no longer so certain it was a good idea to read the words written for someone else's eyes. Nevertheless, the damage was done and – for all the difficulty he had trying to decipher it – he could not unread the message.

_To My Sister,_

_I send you this book for your birthday, Marty, because I know you shall not like it at all. _

_Yours,_

_Little Cecil_

Tom's frown deepened for he – who had never had siblings – found it almost unbelievable that anyone would write such a thing to their own sister. It wasn't nice – the only logical reason to give a gift that wouldn't be liked would be to upset someone. Suddenly, he understood exactly why the doctor had hidden the book from prying eyes.

The young boy began to worry his bottom lip. He could not return the book without the doctor noticing, but she almost certainly would not notice its absence for quite some time – so he could return it at some later point, couldn't he? Tom held the book uncomfortably – somehow, the old tome felt less like a wonderful mystery and more like a shameful secret (and shame was something Tom very rarely felt) now that he knew what it likely meant to the doctor.

Tom considered the matter carefully – eventually concluding that he had already read the personal part of the book, something which could not be undone, and he could not yet return it …so it could hardly hurt to read it, could it? As long as he was careful not to _talk _about it to anyone, that was.

Thus, with a delicate touch, Tom turned the page and began to read.

* * *

There was something horribly grotesque about the whole thing. Tom wasn't honestly sure what the word actually meant, but he knew instinctively that it was the right word. Perhaps that was the influence of all the big, complex, incomprehensible words in the book – the book which he had stayed up until near dawn on Saturday (or was that Sunday?) reading (and which he had then hidden until he could return to it) – on his vocabulary. The day of the funeral, and – indeed – the funeral itself, were utterly misshapen. …Although all Mondays were naturally unpleasant days. The chatter at breakfast had been no more subdued than usual, nor had the day – which had passed Tom by in a whirl – been any more dramatic or poignant (not even when Tom had demanded that he be allowed to read for, or 'to', Dennis… which he had immediately and gently been promised he could do more privately, after the others had returned to the orphanage, and which he had been expecting – and, indeed, prepared – to fight tooth and nail to do).

The funeral …had been dull – and Tom had spent the time for prayers, and closed eyes, staring up at the sky and wondering why it did not rain sadly on them (which would have seemed more appropriate) and the day simply refused to turn hard and cold the way it certainly would have done in one of Tom's books. Then again, Tom concluded, he had abilities, so he could – at least – make sure the reading was… feeling-right.

* * *

Somehow, word had gotten back to the new reverend that Tom wanted to read for Dennis and – in an unfortunate show of open-mindedness and naivety – he had broken from the usual way of doing things at what was technically the end of the funeral by offering to let Tom read then and there. Doctor Elder watched the proceedings from behind a large cluster of the orphans with a – albeit illogical – feeling of inevitable disaster. It was the sort of feeling that came when one knew (if only by logical extrapolation) that something was about to go wrong and yet, despite this, completely failed to act – assuming, rather, the part of the passive spectator. When the reverend offered to help Tom with the reading, having – indubitably – assumed that because the book was clearly for adults and the boy was young that the offer would be accepted, the doctor knew her illogical feeling on the matter had been justified.

Tom fixed the reverend with a cold, blank look. "I do no_t_ require assis_t_ance," the little boy said with a haughty tilt of the head. His tone was clipped and cold – and to Martha's ears; a clear reproduction of her own. As if to brace for the inevitable negative repercussions of the boy's behaviour, she closed her eyes.

"_The Unseen Playmate,_ by Robert Louis Stevenson," Tom read out. Then, as if it were somehow confidential, he added in a stage whisper, "He was Denny's favourite."

There was a titter from amongst the older orphans – evidently someone had found Tom's behaviour more inducing of amusement than awkwardness.

Tom's brow furrowed and he stared fixedly in the direction of the other gravestones (for Dennis was to rest in the corner of the graveyard that contained the cheapest plots, just as Tom's mother and poor Arnold Fitzgerald did). The matron followed his gaze with concern.

"When children are playing alone on the green," Tom began, without looking down at the book and apparently unaware that his abrupt beginning had startled some of his audience, "in comes the playmate that never was seen."

Mary Bonner shivered slightly; somehow it seemed colder to her than it had been moments ago. She was most likely imagining it – just like, she tried to tell herself, she was probably imagining that the matron's face had grown paler at that last line.

"When children are happy and lonely and good," Tom continued.

Martha opened her eyes. _Happy __**and**__ lonely?_ she queried mentally.

"The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood," the little boy recited – his eyes still fixed firmly on the other gravestones, rather than the book of poems he held limply in his hands. To many of his audience it seemed almost as if he was watching someone – or watching _for_ someone.

"Nobody heard him, and nobody saw," Tom recited calmly.

Amongst the graves the petals which had fallen from the bouquets, which were themselves scattered throughout the graveyard, seemed to dance and twirl between the stones in a non-existent wind.

"His is a picture you never could draw," Tom continued. He seemed completely oblivious to the implications the adults felt from the poem – as for some of them that line was a bitter reminder of Arnold Fitzgerald's unsolved murder and for all of them the thought of some stranger coming out _only _when children were unaccompanied was not a comforting one.

"But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home," uttered the little boy, "When children are happy and playing alone."

One of the older orphans glanced confusedly in the direction of the main graveyard. She could have sworn she'd heard a child-like giggle coming from that direction …but none of the other orphans were in that direction and she could not quite blame it was the wind because there _was_ no wind. Yet, she noted with a faintly disturbed feeling, the fallen flower petals spun and danced in the still air.

"He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass," Tom proclaimed, "He sings when you tinkle the musical glass."

The faint sound of distant music – or, more accurately, random notes – made the reverend turn in surprise. He had been quite certain there was no one left in the church when they had walked out to bury the poor child and, while he had not been in charge of this particular little church for long, he was quite certain the church organ was not supposed to play itself.

"Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why," Tom recited. "The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!"

Simon Hughes was not an easily bothered man, but he found it decidedly off-putting to see thin tendrils of fog weaving their way between graves on an otherwise perfectly clear day.

"He loves to be little, he hates to be big," the little boy continued. "'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig."

It was a fleeting thought, for Jonathan Stone, that Tom might have chosen the poem because it mentioned caves and the two little boys had claimed to have been lost in a cave (with a dead body no less) but the sickened feeling that the thought left in his stomach was by no means fleeting.

"'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin," Tom said. "That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win."

Doctor Elder wondered silently how often the boy had recited it to himself, that he could perform the poem without reading or stumbling, although to her medical mind it was more concerning that the boy's eyes were glassy and his pallor unhealthily pale (something which made the almost cerise flush of his cheeks stand out too brightly).

"'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed," Tom continued, unaware of the unanimous discomfort of the orphanage staff at the idea of some unseen being in the rooms of the orphans at night. It would, perhaps, have been less disturbing to them if they were not – to some extent or another – aware that Tom had often complained of dead people (Rosie and the Lady, as he called them) in his room at night.

"Bids you go to sleep and not trouble your head," the boy recited, still watching the graves without expression on his face.

Henry Cole noticed, with no small amount of disbelief, that the fog from amid the graves seemed to be rising up to form a very low hanging little cloud above the small congregation. Somehow, the rest of the sky was cloudless and blue.

"For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf," Tom concluded. "'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!"

It began to rain.

* * *

Tom ducked into his room with a dictionary – long since pilfered from the basement schoolroom and usually hidden in his secret alcove behind the schoolroom bookshelf – tucked firmly under his arm.

As he shut the door his eyes fell on the place Dennis' bed had, up until recently, stood and he leaned back against the door with an almost defeated slump in his posture. Once again he had, quite unintentionally, succeeded in alarming and scaring away the rest of the residents of the orphanage with his (apparently) fallacious understanding of their social rules. He had, to use words that were not _only _ever uttered by Doctor Elder, done it wrong …again. It was the again part of the matter that troubled him – far more, even, than the concerned looks traded among the adults (with the exclusion of the new reverend: who had glanced sidelong at Tom, numerous times, while wearing an expression that made it clear he wouldn't have been surprised if Tom had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail). The whispers, pointing and hushed laughter of the other children hurt the least, but that was most likely because it was the normal state of affairs in the orphanage.

…_There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book..._ The words came into Tom's mind unbidden and he was unsure why one of the few statements from the book's preface (which was apparently a type of part before the story) had floated to the forefront of his thoughts.

Hesitantly, Tom walked over to the window and peered at the half-visible reflection of his face – which peered back at him, with equal curiosity, from the cold panels of glass. He knew quite well that he had understood very little of the book – less than half, most likely – because the content was full of adult problems and the sentences were long, convoluted and filled with complex big words (such as convoluted). Nevertheless, that of the tome he could understand had fascinated him – especially the rich, if likely to wander off topic completely, descriptions the author liked to give – and he looked forward to coming to understand the book more with every time he would re-read it. It would, after all, make more sense every time he was older and read it again.

Tom poked his nose, thoughtfully. His face was pleasant looking, he supposed, at least more so than many of the other orphans – but he didn't really understand why the main characters of the book had all made looking pretty into something so terribly important. Admittedly, Tom was fond of nice things. Tom was very fond of nice things, especially because he never got to have them. The orphans were always fed and clothed and kept healthy, but the most beyond basic necessities they ever received was a nice (watered down) drink on Christmas and New Year and – if they were lucky and could afford it – maybe a cheap little extra on their birthday. Nevertheless, he could not understand why Harry and Basil and all the others seemed to think so much of looking pretty.

Of course, Tom didn't think the main character was particularly intelligent, anyway, so it was hardly surprising. Henry Wotton – Harry, as he was sometimes called in the book – on the other hand, Tom liked quite a bit more than the main character. He faintly understood that Harry had used his friend as a psychology experiment (which Tom knew, from the suffix: the –ology part, was some sort of science, although he wasn't sure which type) and while that wasn't very nice of him, it wasn't stupid the way the main character had been in the handling of his soul. After all, Tom was only a little boy and even _he _could have worked out that if one were to put one's soul into something (albeit by accident, in the case the book portrayed) and one _knew_ that watching it alter was troubling the mind, one ought to put it somewhere where one could not be tempted to keep going to _look_ at it. If Tom were ever to do something as stupid as put his soul somewhere else so that he could stay pretty, he would be smart enough to put it somewhere safe, he decided.

…_You never say a moral thing and you never do a wrong thing…_ The words of Basil, to Henry, echoed in Tom's head with no apparent reason. Tom mused on this for a few moments before deciding that his mind was right; there was no real point thinking about what he would do, because he never did that sort of thing anyway – he only ever seemed to talk about it.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the less he could understand the main character and the man's all consuming terror of someone finding out what he – or, rather, his soul – really looked like. Harry had said that he was only ever terrified by death and Tom thought that Harry had the more sensible fear of the two. As Tom peered at his own reflection he began to consider the possibility that he didn't actually like the book that much at all.

_I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me._ Tom giggled to himself as the line echoed in his head. He liked that line, it was funny. Then he frowned as he remembered what the character had been talking about. A thought had struck him which, although he thought it quite silly, he could not help but be concerned by.

Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. Had he?

* * *

The click and clack of spoons on cups and cups on saucers was the only sound in the crowded staff room. The staff had assembled – after dinner – as if by some unspoken agreement and yet none of them seemed willing to break the awkward silence that dominated the room. If one considered the strange happenings during the funeral of Dennis Bishop, which had been that morning, it was somewhat understandable.

It was Mary Bonner who broke the silence with a hesitant, stilted statement; "The, ah, Reverend is very… worried about what, er, what happened today. He seems to think …that is to say, he's concerned, ah–"

"Oh, get on with it, girl!" snapped Harold Cole, who had been comfortably unaware of the awkwardness as his attention had been entirely on his newspaper.

"He wants to know if Tom Riddle was acting oddly, in case we need to consider the possibility of a possession!" Mary blurted out in response. It took the rest of the staff a moment to actually figure out what she had actually said.

"Tell him 'no'," the doctor drawled from her chair in the corner; "he's always like that." After a moment's pause, she thoughtfully added, "Although I do believe he may be coming down with the flu."

Mary frowned very seriously when she noticed several of her colleagues chuckling to themselves over the doctor's comment. "It's very serious!" she insisted earnestly. "I'm not saying that the boy is possessed, obviously, but something strange _did_ happen. I'm not the only one who noticed it!"

It was that comment that started a lengthy debate amongst the majority of the staff – a debate in which the only solid points ever established were: that Tom believed he was haunted, that Tom believed he had been chased by a reanimated corpse during the last summer holiday, that _something_ had been odd at Dennis' funeral, that the majority of the staff were concerned that Tom might put those three facts together and do something insane such as try to reanimate Dennis' body and reunite it with his spirit, that there were a terrible number of rumours spreading about Tom since the funeral and that only Mary seemed to really believe there was something beyond science and humanity involved.

It wasn't until the debate lulled into silence that Doctor Elder spoke again, this time thoughtfully – as if her attention was elsewhere, "It is, of course, quite impossible – but if it were possible to reanimate the body it would be interesting to note what form, if any, returning consciousness would take…"

There was a somewhat stunned silence from the staff.

"Yes, thank you for your input," Mrs. Cole replied sharply, "_Doctor_ _**Frankenstein!**_"

…Nothing was actually done about the rumours that night.

* * *

The rumours didn't even slow down until around the sixteenth of March, when Doctor Elder calmly and purposefully folded her morning newspaper at a certain page regarding international interests and place it – wordlessly – in front of the matron and walked off: thereby becoming a much more interesting subject of conversation. Those who craned their necks could vaguely make out the word "Hitler" in the headline.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Dhelana Joie:** If you weren't expecting it then I might have done my job right – I wanted it to be a shock. I'm very glad to know that you enjoyed the chapter and I only wish this one could have measured up to it.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** Oh dear, rattled brains? That's not good. I think the corpse from the cave chapter is hungry at the moment and it doesn't take its brains rattled. Well, at least you won't be eaten.

It's quite horrible to think about, but I suppose that's part of the reason I felt the need to include it: not enough people do think about it. I'm sorry if I made you sniffly, though.

…Okay, this is proof I've been on holiday too long. Which Dumbledore quote?

**To Liliana:** I cannot properly express how relieved and delighted I am to hear you say that. Juggling Tom's age, intelligence and reality in the making of this story is my primary headache. I'm also glad to know you can start to see his route to, erm, Dark-Lordery forming. Also, I'm terribly sorry for the long break I took – since you were enjoying the update pace – and I will try to get chapters forty-five to fifty-nine written somewhat more promptly.

**To ilikebutterfingers:** Sorry?

**To xSadistxFujix:** You're making perfect sense, in fact I agree with you to a degree – I've never pictured Dumbledore speaking and understanding fluent Parseltongue. I always imagined that he'd managed to understand broken Parseltongue; which is quite similar to what you describe in your understanding of Japanese. I do, of course, have an explanation for why I would say this in spite of your excellent point about hearing the basilisk: Hogwarts is a big castle and the statistical likelihood of the basilisk and Dumbledore being near each other while the basilisk was talking and the area was quiet enough for Dumbledore to hear it is extremely low. More so, now that I think about it, because Lucius Malfoy got Dumbledore kicked out of the school for a great deal of time during the second release of the basilisk and I always rather imagined that Dumbledore didn't bother to learn anything of Parseltongue until after Tom had returned from abroad as Lord Voldemort and started his first war. Since Tom Riddle (the diary version) was trying to lure Harry into a trap, I account for Harry repeatedly overhearing the basilisk to that. I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree, although I love a good debate.

I'm glad you've been enjoying the story and hope you continue to.


	45. By the Sea: July 20th, 1935

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Five: By the Sea**

Miss Bonner was staring at him again. Tom had noticed her doing that more and more since Dennis died and he proceeded to handle it in the manner he usually did: he smiled winningly at her until she looked away (which she always did while wearing an oddly ashamed expression) and then twisted his face into the more rude and ridiculous poses he could think of at that time. It was breakfast time and the dining hall was crowded, however, so very soon after another member of the staff – Harold Cole – caught sight of what Tom was doing and frowned sternly in the boy's direction. Tom smiled semi-apologetically back at him.

Under the table, however, Tom's right hand clutched the old stick of his mother's (the sparkle-stick), which he had taken to carrying with him in case Miss Bonner decided to look through his things and threw it away because it was so old. Tom didn't really think it was very likely that she would look through his things (Miss Mary, as he was more inclined to call her – regardless of what the older children were _supposed _to call her, was generally too nice for that) but the look she sometimes wore while staring at him made him feel the need to take silly precautions. They were silly precautions, Tom was certain, because over the last few months he had found himself rushing back to his room to check that his stick and his book – which Martha still didn't know he had – were where he had left them and they _always were._ He was doing, he recognised, the exact same thing which Dorian Gray had begun to do regarding his picture – that was why he had decided, with no small amount of second-thoughts and concerns afterward, to leave the tome in plain sight on his bed.

Tom idly wiped his five and a half year old companion's face clean and returned to his porridge. In spite of her age, as both Tom and the orphanage staff often lamented, Amy Benson seemed to be quite incapable of eating anything without smearing it all over her 'pretty little' face.

Amy, however, didn't seem to notice, as she chattered on about how curious she was to know where they would be going – it was a point to note, Tom had to concede, that the orphanage staff were not usually so secretive about where they would be going for the summer trip.

Tom took another bite of his breakfast and allowed his eyes to trail slowly across the staff table. Miss Mary wasn't the only one of the staff obviously paying him attention; that much was clear at a glance. Martha was unabashedly watching him – perhaps to everyone else it appeared that she was keeping an eye on him because he had recently suffered from the flu – with an expression that implied she was observing a specimen in a laboratory experiment …although, to be fair, she _always_ had something of that look in her eyes when she focused on Tom.

In contrast, although Tom wouldn't have noticed if Amy hadn't said something about it, Mrs. Cole was _avoiding_ looking at him. She wasn't, Tom observed, looking and then turning away when their eyes met – the way Mary did – she was actively avoiding looking in his direction. They had all been acting oddly for weeks and it was for that reason that Tom had elected to take the sparkle-stick, although he wasn't sure what use it would be.

All of the orphans, at least those old enough to comprehend the matter, were conversing curiously about where they would be going for the summer trip… but Tom had the terrible feeling that he knew _exactly _where they were going.

* * *

"You're a fool," Mary hissed. "You're a heartless bloody fool!"

Those members of the staff who were part of the impromptu adult gathering, in the corridor of the train, turned to look at the new arrival in surprise – none of them were used to Mary using vulgarities.

"What were you _thinking?_" Mary continued, stalking over to them; her eyes fixed upon the matron. "How could you take them back there; after what happened? After what happened to poor Dennis Bishop, no less?"

Eleanor frowned at her. "There is absolutely no reason not to go back to a perfectly pleasant place because one or two of the children wandered off and gave themselves a scare," she replied sternly.

"We were here _last year_," Mary snapped. "This has nothing to do with… with…" to the surprise of her companions, she trailed off; clearly too angry for words.

"Really, Mary," Lucy Blackwood cut in, adjusting her expensive looking skirt as she did, "I've never seen you like this. I can't see what is so utterly terrible about going to one place two years in a row."

"After what happened last year–" Mary began, hotly.

"After what happened last year it is perhaps a good thing to show those poor children that there is no monster here," Lucy said firmly, cutting the woman who was once her closest colleague off without a second thought.

"Dear Lord, Lucy," Simon Hughes remarked dryly, "can it be that you've actually developed a capability for practical thought?"

Lucy sneered playfully at him.

"Eleanor," Mary said imploringly, turning back to the matron. "Eleanor, the little Benson girl started _crying_ when she realised where we were going. She's _convinced _that we'll all be killed by some sort of monster when we get there – and the Riddle boy isn't helping matters any by talking about how to fend it off!"

"When we arrive and she discovers that there is no monster," the matron said firmly, "she will be much better off than if we allowed this sort of nonsense to continue. It is also the only way we are likely to ever know what did happen."

Mary stared at her in silence for a few moments. "So this…" she stated slowly, although as her disbelief dissipated it was replaced by fury, "this is an _experiment?_" Her nostrils flared. "How _could _you be so _heartless? _For God's sake; they're only children!"

Doctor Elder opened her mouth.

"NOT you, Martha!" Mary exclaimed, her arm shooting out in the doctor's direction, as if to silence her. "I already _know_ you have no heart!"

The doctor arched an elegant eyebrow, but made no attempt to deny it.

It was at that moment that the train lurched. Within a few seconds alarmed glances were traded amongst the staff and they all moved hurriedly to check on their wards.

* * *

Tom Riddle learned the hard way that he was not, in fact, more powerful than a locomotive.

Thankfully, apart from the alarm of all the passengers when the train had lurched (and a rather long day for certain railroad engineers who could never quite explain why the train had briefly experienced far more friction on its tracks than it should have) the only negative result of this discovery was that Tom was somewhat lethargic – most likely because he had used up so much of his energy trying to stop the train.

In fact, where the orphanage staff had expected hysterical outbursts or irrational fear from the two children, once they had reached the grass and set up their picnic there had been no upsets whatsoever from Amy and Tom. Tom was too tired to worry about the monster – although he still believed in it – and Amy was too distracted by Tom's exhaustion and the lovely weather to pay much attention to anything else. To the surprise of every member of the staff, almost the entire outing passed without incident (that is, if one did not include the fact that both Amy and Tom remained stubbornly – or, in Tom's case, sleepily – on the same picnic blanket as Doctor Elder and Mrs. Cole at all times). It was around two in the afternoon when Tom was jolted awake by his pillow (actually the doctor, who had been quite discomforted by his falling asleep against her shoulder) jerking in surprise.

"Why Doctah Eldah!" a voice had exclaimed from behind him. "Fancy seein' you 'ere."

"Madam Cotterill," the doctor replied, irritated. "I hardly recognised you behind your accent."

Eleanor gave her a stern look.

"I 'ave to say it's a bit of a surprise to see you 'ere," the innkeeper continued, "considering what 'apppened last year."

For a moment the local woman paused and it seemed that the conversation – such as it was – was going to trail off (not that either of the orphanage workers would have particularly minded) and Tom blinked blearily up at the stranger, trying to remember who she was.

"Did something happen?" Amy asked; her tone full of innocence, curiosity and the faintest hint of a childhood lisp as she did.

There was a moment of silence as the adults stared at her.

"She means after we left," Tom translated. "Did something else happen after we left last year?"

Madam Cotterill blinked, somewhat taken aback. "Why would she ask that?"

Tom gave her a look – the sort of look that really ought to be capitalised – and slumped against the doctor's shoulder again.

This was, apparently, enough of a cue for the doctor to answer the question. "Because," she stated, "the girl is intelligent and your behaviour clearly implies that you have some piece of gossip you wish to share with us." Doctor Elder gave her a considering look, then added; "As you barely know us, this is most likely because you've run out of people to tell: the locals already know and they have indubitably been telling the other visitors to the area. Furthermore, as this happened about a year ago it must be somewhat old news: you've run out of people to tell because most have no personal interest in the matter. However, you think we may. Please do come to your point."

Madam Cotterill somehow completely failed to note the sarcasm and general coldness of the tone and sat down on the picnic blanket – leaning forward once she had settled, as if she was about to gossip some fantastic secret to a pair of old (and, for that matter, interested) friends. "I only mention 'cause I remember 'ow the little ones were frightened 'o some sort o' monstah last time you were 'ere," she said, conspiratorially.

"And I suppose this, er, 'monster' has been since discovered," Martha replied dryly.

Madam Cotterill made an odd sort of noise and nigh well bounced in place. "When the cliff collapsed they sent out local ships ta' make sure no one was 'urt," she stated. "But they didn't find no one, they didn't."

Eleanor noticed the doctor wince at the double negative.

"Except the one," Madam Cotterill continued, in her usual oblivious manner. "My boy Ernest, who 'elps with the cookin', 'e found 'im. Swears by the lord the man was swimmin' when 'e 'eaded over to 'im – and Ernie's nevah been one to make things up."

"And I suppose," Martha drawled; clearly becoming irritated by the conversation, "tha_t_ it was actually some sort of monster, no_t_ a man, he found and that it's been donated to the local circus."

"It was a man, it was, an' one who'd gone missing several days before – not a local, some cave explorah type, the man was. It _was_ a man," Madam Cotterill replied, leaning forward and bobbing her head earnestly as if to reproach the doctor for her scepticism. "It just weren't a livin' one!"

"I fail to see how that is of particular interest," Doctor Elder stated, tonelessly. "There was an earthquake and a large portion of Cliffside subsequently collapsed: it would have been more unusual if no one had died. Moreover the gases inside a recently deceased body – although less so after 'several days' – could easily make it float and give the impression of intentional movement where there was none."

Madam Cotterill leaned back slightly, as if she had finally noticed that her audience was not a particularly receptive one.

"Half his face was fish-nibbled," Tom mumbled from against the doctor's right arm.

There was a very distinct, uncomfortable, pause.

Finally, Madam Cotterill inquired, "Ow'd 'e know that, then? I 'adn't reached that part yet."

"Tom?" the matron asked, shaken.

Tom looked up and glared at her. "I_ told _you there was a monster," he said. "I _told _you I didn't do anything to Dennis and Amy."

Without missing a beat, the doctor turned quickly around and looked at the innkeeper. "Thank you for stopping by, Madam Cotterill," she stated, although her tone suggested that it was a mere formality, "kindly leave."

The kindly innkeeper gave an insulted sort of huffing noise and wordlessly departed.

"Tom," the matron asked, as gently as she could, "what did you do?"

The little boy stared at her very seriously for a long time then inquired philosophically, "If you think you're doing one thing but you're actually doing something else, is what happens your doing?"

Both of the doctor's eyebrows shot upward, while the matron's jaw dropped ever so slightly.

Tom, apparently sensing that he was not going to receive a reply to his – quite serious – inquiry from either adult, chose to re-emphasise his earlier statement. "I did nothing to Dennis," he told the matron. "I did nothing to Amy. _I did nothing to Dennis and Amy._"

The boy's failure to include any unknown men – alive or dead – in his statement was noted by both women, although both allowed it to pass without comment.

"Why did you bring us back here? I'm not Dorian, my actions aren't an _experiment_." Tom finally mumbled, angry and hurt; and mostly to himself, and curled up as best as he could.

"Why did you steal one of my books?" the doctor countered idly.

Tom tensed and looked up at her with wide eyes. After a moment he frowned at her and said, "I'm angry at you for taking us here."

"I'm more than slightly displeased with you for taking that book," Martha replied quite blankly.

"Good," Tom said. "Then we're both angry."

"Indeed," Martha replied mildly. "…Mary will be delighted."

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Dhelana Joie:** I hope the chapters continue to be worthy of a cheer, then. I'm glad to know you like the references to the political situation of that era, since keeping it historically accurate has always been one of my biggest concerns with this story. I'll try not to keep you waiting for the next chapter (although, from your point of view I suppose this was the next chapter) too long.

**To LavenderStorm: **Well, perhaps not so much the beginning of the horcruxes as the beginning of the, erm, 'logic' he used in how he protected them – but essentially yes. I'm really glad to know that the flow and style are pleasing to you.

To answer your questions: yes, no. Tom was changing the weather (and attempting to make music on the church organ) but it wasn't anything to do with necromancy. The creation of the fog which became a cloud and rained on them was just the pulling together of molecules to create water – which he's been doing since he was very little. In fact, all of the things he did that day were just further use of things he'd already learned how to do. It's just that it happened to occur at a funeral. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.


	46. Monopoly: Nov 10, 11, 17, 26, 1935

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** For the record, I am not particularly happy with the way this chapter turned out. The next ought, hopefully, be a significant improvement – mostly because it is not merely something that had to be in _somewhere_ but did not fit elsewhere – but for today I would suggest that you do not get your hopes up.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Six: Monopoly**

It was on Sunday the tenth of November that Tom finally began to worry less that the corpse from Kent would somehow escape its plot in the graveyard by the sea (where it had been buried as an unidentified person and where very little talk of it ever having moved on its own occurred) and track him down for revenge. That is not to say that he succeeded in starting to rationalise the fear away, as he had not, but rather that he had been distracted from his fears by something new and interesting. The object which so absorbed the young boy's attention was brought into the orphanage by Lucy Blackwood – who had brought it back with her when she returned from her holiday, with her husband, in America – and the first reason that Tom found it so interesting had been that he had been the only orphan who dared creep close enough to the staff room to eavesdrop on the argument the object had caused.

On Sunday the tenth of November, Lucy Blackwood and Simon Hughes argued furiously over a game. Tom found this highly amusing.

"I am not saying that we do not appreciate it, Lucy," Simon snapped, beginning to rise from his chair as he did.

Lucy, who was standing practically against the closed door, sniffed. "It doesn't sound that way," she replied sharply. "I did not _have_ to bring the children this, you know."

"I know that!" Simon barked – this was particularly disturbing to the other people in the room, as not one of the orphanage staff had ever heard Simon in such a bad temper before. "I just think some new blankets or pots and pans would have been more practical!"

Lucy Blackwood's next response was one which could be best defined as a screech, "_MORE PRACTICAL_!" This outburst was momentarily followed by a pause in which she overcame her surprise, before she continued to voice her opinion on the matter: "MORE PRACTICAL! THEY'RE _CHILDREN_, SIMON, THEY NEED ENTERTAINMENT AS WELL!"

"Oh, yes, _very good_," Simon snapped. "Why don't we give the children a game about amounts of money THEY'LL_ NEVER_ HAVE FOR REAL!"

It was roughly at that point that Tom decided to stop listening through the door – although this was mainly because the increase in volume also increased the chance that someone would arrive to find out why there was so much shouting going on.

* * *

As it happened, it was not until Monday evening that the new game was played. On the one hand, this was unfortunate – as it was proof of just how long two normally sweet-natured people could go on shouting at each other when they were angry – but on the other hand it did allow time for news of the new game to spread throughout the orphanage and therefore insured that there was a very large crowd watching as a small group of the children (whom had been exceptionally well behaved in the weeks before Lucy's return) played the game for the first time.

The six players had secured a spot near the fire for themselves, and the game, although this meant they were seated on the floor. The majority of their audience were either seated in chairs – which had been pulled as close as possible to the six children on the floor – or draped over the sides of the chairs in order to secure themselves a decent view of what was happening.

Tom had been forced to one side of the room because of the crowding and had, consequently, been forced to strain to see what was happening in the game. This was not in the least due to the fact that he was standing behind a group of some of the very oldest children in the orphanage – children who were almost adults and growing quickly bored with a game that consisted of going around the board and trying to buy property. The most obvious result of the large crowd gathered around the game was that many people could not actually see what was happening.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour on three different occasions and still the game had not reached its end and many members of the audience had grown bored and wandered away (although most remained somewhere in the room, so that they would know if the game ever ended). However, this did mean that Tom finally had a better – albeit still fairly poor – view of what was actually happening. Tom was not particularly certain of the accuracy of what he was seeing, though, as it appeared to him that there was a thimble in the lead and a top hat in jail. Moreover, as he also could not hear what was being said by the players particularly well, Tom had no idea how accurate (or inaccurate) his understanding of what he had seen actually was.

Nevertheless, there was something of interest which the little boy _could_ see and hear very clearly. It was the murmurs of the older children whom he was still trapped behind. In fact, from his vantage point, Tom could clearly identify who was shaking hands with whom to seal the various bets they were placing. Tom wasn't entirely certain why they were doing so, but he figured that if the rest of the audience were as bored as he was then it made some amount of sense to discuss and bet on who would win the game (presuming it _ever_ managed to end).

Tom found it all very fascinating and when Amy, who had eventually found her way to his side once more, pointed and fawned over a mouth organ that one of the older children was showing the others – clearly, to Tom's eyes, offering it as something of high value to be his bet – Tom decided to find a way to get it for her; if only so that she would stop pouting about it.

* * *

If Doctor Elder had not already been unable to sleep and had not gone down to the kitchen for something to wash away the taste of watered-down gin: of which she had only taken a single shot and which she would not have needed if she had not accidentally ripped the letter which had arrived a month beforehand (sent by her cousin in Germany). As it was, however, she did rip the letter by accident and drank a shot to calm her shaking hands – the combination of which led her down toward the kitchens in the middle of the night; muttering something to herself and 'Nuremberg Laws' and 'madmen' as she did.

She heard the sound of the dice falling between her mutterings and, with a slight frown, proceeded to investigate.

Tom Riddle was seated on the floor, next to the empty and long cold fireplace, in one of the main rooms. The game which Lucy had brought back from America was spread out before him. It was at the instant the doctor spotted this that she became absolutely certain that the little boy had, in fact, learned how to pick locks.

The dice clattered across the board again, landed and then suddenly rolled back so that a different pair of sides were facing up.

"Maas," Martha murmured somewhat sternly.

Tom jerked violently and spun around to look at the door, where the doctor had paused.

Doctor Elder, apparently unfazed by this, continued in her usual toneless way, "Sleep is a medical necessity. You ought to be in bed."

Tom considered this for a moment, then picked up the dice and tossed them again. If one were to judge by the scrunched up look of concentration on his face, one would most likely have been able to guess that he was trying to use his abilities to alter the way the dice would land.

Martha, being a particularly observant woman, recognised what Tom was attempting almost immediately and quietly crossed the room to sit in the nearest chair to the boy.

"The game has been here a week," she stated. "You will receive a chance to play eventually – provided you stop trying to cheat before you've even played once."

"If I am doing it to make someone else happy, is that right?" Tom inquired.

The doctor arched an elegant eyebrow – a gesture nearly lost on her companion in the dark room. "Cheating is not appropriate," she stated.

Tom tilted his head and looked up at her. "I'm not really cheating, though," he argued. "One wins this game by a combination of luck and their own skills – I am becoming skilled in controlling my …abilities, so I am merely using my skills to win."

Martha did not reply verbally to this, but there was the hint of a mix of approval at his logic and disapproval of his conclusions in her eyes as she observed him.

"I'm not going to play, anyway," Tom added with a shrug. "If I win too well I'll be accused of cheating."

"You _would_ be cheating," Martha pointed out.

"I don't care to play," Tom reiterated. "Thus I would not be cheating: I would be altering a player's luck."

"To what point and purpose?" inquired the doctor.

"To allow one of the older children – I haven't decided which one yet – to have a winning streak in the betting," Tom answered in a very matter of fact sort of way. "The agreement being that I will help them to win until they win the mouth organ Amy is so fascinated by and a set number of the bets after I receive my payment."

Martha blinked, for once uncertain that she had heard the boy correctly. "There are children placing bets on the outcome of the games?" she inquired sharply, after she had overcome her surprise.

For the first time that night, Tom looked at her with some fear and alarm in his eyes. "You _aren't_ going to tell anyone,_ are_ you?" he cried. "They're only betting silly things like thimbles and mouth organs," he continued, an almost frantic note creeping into his voice as he did. "I thought that if I gave Amy a present it would prove to Mrs. Cole that I _am_ capable of being nice!"

"I must think on this," she replied quietly.

* * *

The next morning Tom took advantage of Miss Hackett's failure to pay much attention to what was happening in the back of her classroom to pull one of the very oldest girls (who was at the other end of the age group in the class) aside. There was something about the frantic and earnest way he went about suggesting the deal that convinced her that he could really do what he claimed he could do.

It was on November the twenty-sixth, some three days after Amy Benson started proudly parading her new toy – the despicable mouth organ – around to all who were not fast enough to get away in time, that Martha Elder finally reached a decision. Due to the nature of the matter, and the doctor's own cautious and considering nature, she had taken a great deal of time to turn the matter over in her head.

On the one side of the matter, there was precious little entertainment for the seventy or so children living in the orphanage – because the price of everything was far too much and had been so for years. Yet on the other hand the children could devote their minds to their studies – and increase the chances that they may yet move up in the world if they find good work as adults – and there were plenty of imagination games that a child could play if they wanted to do so. However, the main problem was in the form of those children who were practically adults: they would most likely not be satisfied with imagination games.

Then there was another matter to consider: the children who were gambling – for there was no other term for it – were not only increasing their chances of falling into bad habits when they actually had something of value to gamble, they were also setting an example which the younger children would most likely try to emulate. For the good of all the children's futures, then, it would seem best to put a stop to it.

On yet another hand, though, it would be almost impossible to put a stop to it unless the game they were betting on was itself abolished and that would mean even more additional stress on the orphanage staff (whom, furthermore, would not be able to trust the matter to their usual deputies: the oldest children) and tempers had already flared unnecessarily on more than one occasion. Then, of course, there was the matter of Tom: whose behaviour – even with a good cause – had been rather inappropriate and to whom she would indubitably be sending a confusingly mixed up message by failing to stop the gambling until _after _he had accomplished his goal.

Doctor Elder opened the door of the matron's office and walked in. "We have a problem," she told her colleague.

* * *

_**A/N:**_

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality: **I'm glad to hear that you liked chapter forty-four and that Mary has been endearing to you. Thank you for pointing out the Dumbledore quote, by the way, it's been so long since I had the time to re-read that I'd honestly forgotten which of his many sayings I'd put in (not to mention where!). It certainly was a bad call on the matron's part; unfortunately it was based in logic and goodwill so it's hard to be terribly mad at her.

Okay, I'm supposing that an evil cackle in reply to your final comment in the review you gave for chapter forty-five would be unnecessarily cruel and unusual torture ...which, I suppose, means I ought to give a definite answer instead of leaving you hanging. We _shall _be hearing from Abraxas Malfoy again, just not at Stonehenge.

**To Shebali:** Considering how long I myself have been away, it would have been extremely unfair of me to wonder if you – or any of my lovely reviewers, for that matter – had gotten bored and wandered off.

I'm afraid you're quite right: lighter scenes are becoming rarer and rarer in this story, I'm very glad that you found the poem scene creepy (because I pretty much bit my fingers off worrying that it wasn't going to be an unsettling scene) and that you caught the Sweeney Todd reference in the title shared by the song and the chapter (_By The Sea_, in which whomever plays Mrs. Lovett has no time to breathe). I'm also extremely pleased to know that Mary won your favour in the chapter.

I hope you continue to enjoy the story even though I skip over the rest of the summer trip.


	47. Edward Wolfe: December 31st, 1935

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Seven: Edward Wolfe**

Ever since Martha had told the matron about the gambling ring, Tom had been receiving even more unpleasant looks and comments from the other orphans than he usually did. This was mostly because the vicious tart he'd made his deal with had blamed the gambling ban – which the matron had put into place immediately and enforced with an iron hand – on Tom. The aforementioned tart had also been extremely vocal about it.

In Tom's opinion, this was a perfectly valid reason – even a month after the ban had been placed – to pounce on Martha (while she was still in bed) at far-too-early-in-the-morning-o'clock on his birthday.

So he did.

* * *

Tom narrowed his eyes. He knew, logically, that it wasn't the new boy's fault that he had been orphaned at the right time and in the right area to be placed in Vauxhall Road Orphanage on Tom's birthday, but at the same time it was annoying because Tom already had to share his only special day with New Years Eve and he really didn't want to have to share it with something else as well …that always ended badly.

"Are you certain you shan't stay for lunch?" the matron asked.

Tom, who was loitering with Amy further along the main corridor, rolled his eyes. He knew from experience that it was pointless to ask Martha's policeman-friend to stay once he'd dropped off some new orphan and the paperwork had been handled.

Sure enough, Thomas Brown shook his head, made his apologies and left. The boy he had left behind – delivered, really – was about fifteen years of age and (from Tom's perspective) almost peculiarly average. The boy had the pallid skin of one who rarely went outside and an oddly bland look upon his face as he glanced around. From the distance he was at, Tom could not tell if the older boy had any redness in his eyes or slightly swollen eyelids – or, for that matter, any other clear sign of tearfulness – but he could see that the boy was of an average height, an average build and that the hair on his head was a very average shade of brown. The boy seemed entirely forgettable …but he was not upset. It was that fact that held Tom's attention and had resulted in his holding Amy back in the corridor so that he could watch the newest orphan.

Tom was well aware that some orphans did not cry or react with visible upset when they were brought in – although this boy had already had his medical examination, from what Tom had heard, and they most often broke by that point; which was most often _entirely_ the doctor's fault – but they always had an air of unhappiness about them, even when they barely reacted to the world. This new boy appeared to be completely unconcerned …or, at least, so it seemed to Tom (who had seen far too many new orphans arrive and felt he knew just about every normal reaction they had to the orphanage and their fates).

Amy tugged gently on the sleeve of his grey uniform tunic. "I'm _hungry_," she whined.

Tom, who was too busy watching the approaching matron and new arrival to truly pay attention to what she had said, idly reached out and patted her on the head. The results of this were firstly that Amy giggled and buried her face in Tom's sleeve, and secondly that the matron noticed their presence.

"Tom Riddle," Mrs. Cole stated, somewhat exasperatedly. "Must you always_ loiter_ so? You set a terrible example for the little ones. Not everything is your business, you know."

Tom graced her with a charming – and utterly false – smile and turned to greet the new arrival. However, his intended greeting (_hello, welcome to Hell_) seemed to die in his throat when he met the new boy's eyes. In colour they were a dull brown (average and forgettable, like the rest of him) and the lack of any signs of recent crying was odd, yet not totally unheard of – but the lack of any emotion inside the boy startled Tom. There was a sort of blankness about them, Tom decided, like when Martha was being impassive and intelligence was the only thing visible in her gaze. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then the good doctor almost always had the curtains shut …but Tom was looking right into the room behind the new boy's windows and _the furniture was practically unused_ and for some reason that terrified Tom.

Tom stumbled backward, breathing heavily, forcibly turning his head and gaze away from the older boy. He'd had similar experiences, in some ways, with the snakes he had encountered at the London Zoological Garden and a faint memory of a similar experience with a mother near Stonehenge, but those experiences had felt natural. It had simply made sense to hear the snakes. He had been searching the new boy's eyes, and maybe he had pushed a little (unintentionally), but he hadn't expected to plunge into his thoughts – if they had been such a thing – as he might have while overhearing a talkative snake or a young serpent still learning how to (and how not to) project.

"Tom?" the matron called from far away, or what felt to Tom as if it was far away.

It was the sound of Amy's embarrassed giggling that brought Tom back to his senses.

The new boy had bent down to look her in the eye and extended a hand to her, pretending to give her hand a kiss when she cautiously reached out. "Hello there," the new boy said, his empty tone failing to live up to the charm of his words. "Aren't you adorable?"

"_No_," snarled Tom, although he was not entirely certain why he was so angry (admittedly he was willing to place the blame for it on his unpleasant experience). "Amy's _mine_," he added, his tone a strange mix of petulance and fury as he grabbed the little girl's hand and pulled her away. "Go find you own!"

"MISTER RIDDLE!" the matron shrieked. "You _cannot __**own**_ a _person!_"

"Actually, that would be called slavery," Doctor Elder interjected, in a manner which would have seemed toneless if not for the slight hint of wry humour in it, as she came down the stairs. "Although I shall grant that it is currently illegal."

Tom took advantage of the interruption to escape into the dining hall with Amy, although he shot a furtive glance back at the toneless new boy as he did.

* * *

"I keep forgetting the new addition's name," Simon Hughes murmured, hanging his head with a faintly abashed air as he did.

The somewhat odd congregation of staff members, who were – for want of a better word – lurking in one corner of the drawing room, gave him various looks of amusement and exasperation.

"There are seventy-eight orphans living here at the current time, Mister Hughes," Helen pointed out, brushing some of her flaxen locks away from her face as she did. "Who they are and how many there are varies terribly often. It would be absurd to expect anyone to remember all the particulars of every child – especially one whom only arrived a few hours ago."

"Edward Thomas Wolfe: fifteen years, four months. Parents and younger sister murdered by person, or persons, unknown, deceased sibling's cadaver shows signs of rape. Official reports state the boy's testimony places him out drinking during the night of the deaths with a friend he refuses to identify," Doctor Elder stated.

Several of the children who had been blatantly eavesdropping on the conversation shifted away uncomfortably.

"Really, Doctor, must you?" Henry Cole enquired tiredly.

One of the doctor's dark eyebrows quirked upward momentarily, but she gave no other sign that she had heard him.

Simon, ever one to stall an impending argument, widened his large, brown eyes and tilted his head to the side in a somewhat comic manner reminiscent of a baffled puppy. "For clarification's sake: his name is Edward?" the cook inquired.

The doctor's eyebrow quirked again; a clear sign that she was not impressed by his theatrics.

"Edward seven," Henry confirmed. "It really does get easier when you start numbering them."

His wife hit him over the head and then turned back to observing her newest charge. Edward Wolfe was sitting with a group of the other fifteen year old boys, but to the matron's experienced eye it didn't seem like he was fitting in as well as she would have liked.

Eleanor pursed her lips. After a moment, she said, "I believe we are digressing. We shall most likely need to reorganise the sleeping arrangements slightly due to the age of our newest addition, but we need to know how we are going to do that soon: otherwise Edward will spend his first night here sleeping on the floor."

"He seems to fit well with the boys he is sitting with – perhaps we could put him in with them?" Jonathan suggested.

Eleanor shook her head, frustrated. "It would be perfect, if there was actually space for an additional boy in their room. The only way to fit him in the same room as them would be to switch their room with that of the fifteen year old girls on the left side of the corridor. _That _would place a group of young men directly between several rooms of young women; and _that _would not be appropriate."

"There is something wrong with that boy," Mary murmured, speaking up for the first time during the conversation.

The rest of the present staff members turned, in unison, to look at her in surprise. It was highly unusual for the sweet natured woman to make such a statement quite so quickly – and most of the staff had attributed her silence to the need to tend the youngest current orphan; who was cuddled in her arms, in his blankets, and suckling idly on his caretaker's fingers.

The matron frowned at her, silently considering the unusual outburst, and then voiced the thought that had occurred to most of them, "That's a very quick judgement, Mary, he hasn't been here long."

A surprisingly anguished look crossed Mary's face as she stared at her employer. It was painfully clear that she was struggling to find the right words for the sentiment she was trying to convey. "Eleanor," she stated imploringly, with a plaintive look in her eyes, "there is something wrong with him. I can't say precisely what, but it reminds me of one of my little brothers – one who fell into the devil's ways, who always seemed to have something of the devil in him. Eleanor, _there is something wrong_."

Eleanor Cole sighed and then, as gently as she could, she replied, "Mary, 'it feels wrong' is neither a logical nor a medical argument."

It was no surprise, given the words and the topic in question, that the majority of the staff refocused their attention on the doctor; who stood silently, with her hands clasped behind her back, at the edge of the group. It was clear that the doctor's opinion would count for more in the matter than Mary's instincts – at least in the eyes of the ever rational and practical matron.

Doctor Elder opened her mouth to respond, but paused momentarily before speaking; her tone bland, although it held hints of both surprise and finality. "…I agree with Mary."

* * *

Tom had not been particularly hungry all through dinner – although he was not so foolish as to refuse to eat, given how little everyone had most of the time – for fear of having to share his room again: especially with the new boy. For that reason he had lingered as much as possible over his meal (he'd known because it was rather hard not to notice an additional bed being placed in one's room) and done his best to stay downstairs in the drawing room for as long as he possibly could before he was sent to bed.

However, there was no longer any chance of avoiding Edward Wolfe – late night had come and the orphans had all been sent to their beds. Tom, who had not needed someone to go over the nightly routine with him, had reached his room before Wolfe did and had sat down on his bed with a book (_The Hound of the Baskervilles_). He hadn't exactly bothered to acknowledge the new boy when he'd entered.

Finally, Tom put down his book as Wolfe began to climb into bed in the darkening room (Mrs. Cole had given Tom an exasperated look when she'd noticed his apparent failure to spot his new companion and had therefore simply put the lights out curfew into action without a word of warning, bid them goodnight and left).

"Why don't you cry?" Tom asked suddenly, blunt and harsh curiosity – the type that bore no regard for feelings – colouring his every word. "New orphans _always _end up crying; but you're not even upset."

"It is tearing me apart on the inside," Edward Wolfe stated, but his blank tone did not match his vivid wording.

To Tom, it seemed almost as if the older boy was reciting a phrase he had seen in a book or a film; without actually feeling the emotion behind it. As he considered the matter, Tom concluded that the boy always seemed to sound like that – probably because he was depressed; which Tom thought meant 'too sad to be sad' or something – and Tom himself did not approve of it because it sounded too bland and uninteresting. Suddenly, Tom thought he understood why the matron had claimed Wolfe had difficulties socialising when she'd informed Tom why he would be sharing a room again. Yet, somehow, Tom couldn't see placing the older boy in a room with Tom helping the matter – since Tom was decidedly not a social person. Perhaps he was supposed to irritate the boy into not being numb anymore? Tom shook his head slightly at the ridiculousness of the thought.

"Does the owner of that book know you've stolen it?" Edward inquired, although he somehow managed to make it sound like another toneless statement.

Tom jerked violently around in his bed. "_Wha__**t**__?_" he hissed. "Do you honestly expect me to answer that? What right is it of yours to know?"

"You owe me," Edward stated.

"I owe you _nothing_!" Tom replied, his exclamation coming out somewhat hissed in his desperation not to be overheard fighting on the new boy's first night and therefore get into trouble.

"I answered your question: you owe me," Edward stated. "I answered your three subsequent questions, so you owe me four favours – and I am allowing you to stay in my room, so you owe me more."

Tom fumed silently for a moment. When he finally did speak, for the moment had seemed to go on indefinitely in spite of its extreme brevity, there was a serpentine hiss to his tone. "Fir_st_ly," he almost snarled, which was an impressive feat whilst hissing, "_t_hi_s _is _**my **_room, so _you_ owe _me_ for letting you _st_ay here. _**S**_econdly, you gave only _one_ answer to the three questions and la_**st**_ly: I am _no__**t**__required_ to answer your questions JUST BECAUSE YOU FELT LIKE ANSWERING MINE!"

The silence from Edward seemed almost ominous in Tom's imagination – which was surprising, as it was the most describable the elder boy had actually ever been.

After a time, Tom spoke again; more calmly, "We have to go to sleep after the lights are all put out: it's the rules." Then, in an effort to make the elder boy actually accept what he was saying, Tom added: "I've given you information so I don't owe you for shouting and letting you stay in my room means you still owe me – in spite of the four favours for the questions, as they are counted in – and we owe it to the matron to go to sleep; because _she _is _allowing us_ to stay in_ her building_." All in all, Tom was rather impressed by the amount of sheer _**rubbish **_he could babble out on the spot and make sound impressive.

There was a faint, yet toneless, affirmative – or accepting – noise from Edward, which was followed by an equally toneless well wish for the night. It made Tom shudder.

Later that night, after he was quite certain the elder boy had gone to sleep, Tom slipped out into the hall and looked around somewhat desperately. The other boy's presence had kept Tom awake by its sheer disconcerting nature alone.

"M-mother?" Tom called quietly into the darkness. "Mother can you hear me?"

A chill seemed to creep into the air.

"I know I wasn't very nice last time," Tom added, with a sort of wry humour born of desperation in his tone, "but you're my _mother _and I could really use the help." It was for need of the help alone he was asking, in reality, but the emotional ploy would make her happy and certainly couldn't hurt; so it made sense to use it to smooth over the past.

The translucent, pearly figure of the ragged young woman with the slit throat and bleeding middle floated toward him from the gloom. For a moment the gory visage made Tom want to flee back into his room and pretend he had never called on her, but he decided – as he swallowed the lump in his throat – that he preferred the horror he knew and could trust over whatever might be odd about the blank boy in the bed across from his.

There was a giggle in the darkness.

"There's a new boy sharing my room with me, now, M-mum?" Tom tried to say, although the later part of it came out a question, and he couldn't quite help glancing around nervously.

Mrs. Riddle nodded her eerie head, causing several drops of silvery blood to ooze out of her neck.

"I don't know what it is about him," Tom continued, "but something about him makes me afraid to sleep while he's in the room with me. I-I was hoping – since you, um, since you seem to want to spend time with me – that you might be willing to …to watch over me at night and wake me if he seems like he's going to try something?"

The dead woman reached out and gently stroked his cheek – although her fingers went slightly inside his head and he could feel the chill of her touch in his teeth as well as his cheek. He didn't dare – nor did he particularly _want_ – to lean into her touch, but he did his best to close his eyes (which was both made harder and easier by his terror) and look like he was enjoying the macabre attempt to be affectionate.

There was another giggle in the darkness. "We shall certainly help," chirped a high, childish and _very_ familiar voice.

Rosie Mallory-Baines smiled up at him, with part of her little translucent cheekbone visibly moving through the hole in her charred skin as she did.

* * *

_**A/N:**_

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** I can't say I actually mind getting such a small number of reviews in comparison to less complex stories, although I would prefer it didn't make you sad. This way I actually can reply to each review personally and I'd honestly rather have a small number of _quality _reviews than a high quantity of rushed and mangled demands for more chapters.

I haven't played Monopoly in years, myself, which is probably obvious from how I did my best to avoid actually showing the game play in the chapter devoted to it. I used to have a Star Trek edition, with different model ships instead of the normal counters… I wish I knew what happened to it, I'd intended to get the other three quadrants one day… As for controlling wizards in gambling… I imagine that's a minor part of what people like Arthur Weasley are supposed to prevent (it would count as misuse of muggle artefacts, I should think), but I doubt there's any real way to handle it. Of course, I doubt many wizards are clever enough to figure out how to successfully rig games with muggles without getting caught for doing magic in front of muggles.


	48. Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolfe: '36

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**AN:** I've been trying to get one chapter written and posted a week, but I seem to forever be falling behind my self-imposed deadline (which is there so that I will get around, sometime soon, to the original novel which I will be aiming to get published). My apologies, therefore, for continually failing to keep to my deadline and getting everyone's hopes up.

Furthermore, I wanted to say, that the character of Edward Wolfe is based solely on the behaviour of the _actual_ psychopaths who my mother used to work with/take care of while she was a nurse in a psychiatric hospital and her experiences with them.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Eight: Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolfe? January 31st, 1936  
**

The morning after Edward had arrived he had forgiven Tom for yelling at him. This had been immediately followed by Edward stating that Tom should be his friend, because Tom owed him for his forgiveness.

A month later Tom was beginning to think that, in hindsight, failing to argue against that not-logic had been a very bad idea.

Edward had, apparently, concluded that if Tom would give in and do things his way once then he would continue to do so. This meant that Tom, apparently being the easiest target, was the constant object of his blatant demands. The staff, as Tom had realised to his annoyance, never had this problem – or, at least, not so much – because they had all refused to accept the 'gifts' and 'favours' the boy offered and generally refused to put up with his behaviour. Though Tom didn't know it, this was widely accepted to be the doing of Mary – who insisted upon describing the boy as 'the devil's agent' but whose advice 'never make a deal with him' was sound. Unfortunately, by the time Doctor Elder had verified – by observation – this advice and passed the warning on to Tom, the damage had already been done. Edward knew that Tom _could_ be convinced to make deals and exploited this as much as he could. The rest of the orphans – especially those who had never spoken to either Tom or Edward – found Tom's sudden, subsequent, determination to follow any present member of the staff around as much as possible to be highly peculiar.

Tom had quickly learned, although most of the orphans were unaware of this, that Edward could – and would – make one owe him for _everything._ If he 'helped' with one's studies, one owed him for the help. If one helped _him_ with his studies (a mistake which Tom had only made once) one owed him for not telling Miss Hackett one had offered to let him cheat off one's work. If one sat with him during meals, one owed him for the company; if one _avoided_ sitting with him during meals, one owed him for not being hurt and for being understanding. If one lost something (and Tom strongly suspected _Edward_ was the one responsible for such losses) one owed him for finding it or helping to search – _and_ for giving it back once it was found. If Edward lost something, one owed him for probably having been the one who lost his things. Worse still, Edward continually insisted that Tom owed him for putting up not only with Amy but also with the peculiar chill that constantly surrounded Tom and Tom's odd behaviour. Tom very much wished that he would stop, but held out little hope of it – for, from what Tom understood of the matter, Edward continued to try his methods on the staff but found Tom to be the easiest target.

After a month of sharing a room with Edward, however, Tom could admit that the situation was partially his own fault – he couldn't help but be curious about why the older boy didn't seem to work quite right in the head. He also couldn't help but wonder – on some nights, when Rosie didn't feel like talking at him – if other people saw _him_ as not working right in the head: the way he viewed Edward.

There was also the problem that the boy – although he was apparently still depressed, for he remained toneless and unenthusiastic about everything – sometimes just had such_ interesting_ ideas. Tom knew that stealing was considered wrong (he had been shocked when Edward had suggested taking the necessary money from the donations for the orphanage) but the man he'd picked the pocket of had looked very rich. Moreover, stealing from the rich for the for the sake of the poor (such as orphans) was what Robin Hood did. Besides, Tom had never seen a film before Edward had arrived at the orphanage, so he was willing to owe the older boy for not telling about the theft if it meant the older boy would take him along. Of course, this meant that Tom lived in the constant fear that Edward would tire of their 'friendship' and expose the thefts (which kept adding up, because they always needed more money to go to the cinema and had needed quite a bit to begin with to buy coats which would cover the orphanage insignia on their tunic shirts – for Tom had wisely pointed out that two orphans with the money to go to the cinema would certainly raise eyebrows and result in unpleasant questions).

However, Tom knew all too well that Edward did not fear _Tom _revealing their expeditions: Tom was starting to think that the older boy wasn't afraid of anything. In fact, Tom was beginning to wonder if anything could get a reaction from the boy. He had tested the theory in the third week since Edward had arrived, when he'd casually complained that the glow of his mother's ghost – who was usually behind him in the cinema and who had once tried to 'defend' him from the onscreen monster – had made it hard to see the film. Unfortunately, Edward's only reaction had been to say that Tom owed him for not telling the staff that Tom was insane – tonelessly, as ever – and Tom's mother had looked very hurt. Tom had almost been afraid that she wouldn't keep watch over him during the night anymore.

In spite of his apparent 'friendship' with Edward –and how happy Miss Hackett seemed when she saw them interacting instead of keeping to themselves – Tom couldn't bring himself to trust the other boy enough to dismiss his late guards. Not, however, that Tom found it particularly easy to sleep with his guards present …especially not since the day Rosie had innocently and sincerely pointed out that he wouldn't have to worry about the other boy if he would just kill himself already.

Between the constant – and always unnerving – presence of the ghosts and the constant battle of wits that was staying on Edward's good side without giving him too much control, Tom had becoming increasingly jumpy and was constantly struggling to get enough sleep. Nevertheless, his terror of his three companions kept him from taking the sleep remedies which were suggested and offered by the doctor. Who knew, after all, what _any_ of them might do if he fell into a drugged sleep? Edward seemed inclined not to harm him because he was useful, but it was impossible to tell what was going on in his head. Rosie had made it clear that she thought Tom would be better off dead …and after the fire in the nursery so many years ago, who was to say she wouldn't take matters into her own hands? As for his mother …she seemed the least likely to harm him, but it was always possible that she would decide killing him gently in his sleep was kinder than allowing someone else to harm him later. The only one he could trust – apart from Martha, whose solution was the offer of medicines that would make him fall into a sleep from which he might not wake in time to save himself from an attack – was Amy… and she was too busy crying over the disappearance of her mouth organ to be of any use. All in all, Tom had not had a good month.

* * *

Amy liked it better when Tom read her stories than when Edward did. Tom didn't ask anything in return for it, for one thing – and Tom always made the stories very interesting and put lots of life into all the characters' voices. In fact, he had just read her the story of the three little pigs – complete with voices – and had actually taken the time to add in a song he had heard (though he wouldn't say where he'd heard it) for the pigs to sing while building their homes. Tom also bluntly refused to admit that he hadn't 'accidentally' had the entirety of the song's lyrics repeat in his head until he couldn't help remembering them – but Amy knew that he'd actually taken the time to learn them for her, even though he denied it …and sort of threatened her with no more stories if she _ever _told anyone that he'd sung for her. It was almost enough to make her forget about her missing mouth organ.

Edward was always particularly dull when he read anything aloud – even things prefaced with the phrase 'You might find this interesting'. Amy didn't like that he was dull. She also didn't like the fact that he was taking her time with Tom away from her. It was for that reason that, when Edward unintentionally interrupted a before-dinner story, Amy sniffed and stomped out of the room.

Tom, who was completely baffled by this behaviour, blinked and shifted slightly on his bed. Edward opened his mouth as if to speak, but Tom cut him off. "You scared away my friend," the younger boy stated, stubbornly trying to turn the elder boy's methods against him, "so you owe me."

Edward blinked. It was about as much of a reaction as Tom had ever received. Finally, after a long pause, Edward stated, "I shall share a secret with you, because you are my friend."

The reply sounded toneless as ever, but it got Tom's attention because any secret the strange boy had was obviously, in Tom's opinion, worth knowing and, possibly, using. Tom dipped his head slightly in acceptance of the deal.

The box which Edward pulled out from under his bed was as nondescript as its owner. Tom was of the opinion that the description was very fair on his part, as he had only ever seen Edward make facial expressions when he seemed to be trying to convince someone of something (usually to give him something or let him do something – such as disappear 'to the park' for hours when they wanted to go see a film).

"It'll be our little secret," Edward stated, gesturing for Tom to cross over to Edward's side of the room as he did. Edward and Tom had divided the room near the start of the month because Tom had discovered that having separate, defined, sides was the only way to live in the room with Edward …although for Tom it was a constant and painful reminder of Dennis.

It was with some caution, therefore, that Tom crossed the masking tape line and entered Edward's territory to look in the box. Edward had placed the open box on his bed, by which he stood, and Tom glanced warily at him as he stepped up to the elder boy and peered down.

The box contained an assortment of trinkets. Tom could see, amongst the collection, a thimble, a yo-yo and… _Amy's mouth organ_.

"Do you like it?" Edward inquired.

Tom righted himself again and fixed his companion with a wary, and somewhat vexed, look. "You shouldn't have these," he stated, coldly.

"You're my friend, Tom," Edward stated. "Friends share. They belong to you, too. Don't you like my gift?"

Tom had a sinking sort of feeling in his gut, for – now that he thought about it – every single item in the box had gone missing over the month that Edward had been at the orphanage. If it was found, they would both be in a great deal of trouble …especially since most of the items we the sort that was still being traded in the very secret gambling operation run (on the Monopoly games) by one of the older boys. Moreover, Tom knew it was only a matter of time before the Matron discovered the remaining gambling ring and since she knew Tom had _previously_ been involved in the betting she would reach some very quick conclusions _if_ he was found to have a box of such trinkets…

"_Edward_," he replied, attempting to emphasise the seriousness of the matter. "We ough_t _no_t_ to _have_ these."

"I don't like your tone," stated Edward, then turned and put the box back under his bed.

"YOU DON'T LIKE ANYTHING!" Tom roared, finally losing his temper, and he noted – with some pleasure – that the older boy did actually slip slightly as he stood because Tom's unexpected shouting had given him a start.

"You are making me very angry," Edward stated.

"No," Tom replied, somewhat breathlessly and with a sudden comprehension that made him seem both defeated and victorious. "_No_," he repeated, shaking his head slightly.

"You're no_t_ angry, you're _not __**anything**_**.** You _never_ are," Tom continued, the words coming faster and faster as the knowledge that he had finally found Edward's weak point settled in his mind. "You say the words but you have _no idea_ what they_ mean!_ You got to films and read books and repeat the_** ridiculous**_ false phrases you hear there – _that's_ what's wrong with the way you talk: I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING!"

Tom grinned viciously at his companion as he ranted, allowing an entire month's worth of fear and frustration to pour out of him in words as he did. "You're no_t _a _person_ – you're a collection of _badly performed_ quotes! Without your silly films you would be _nothing _more than an _empty vessel_. You _**say**_ you're angry, but _nothing_ in you changes. YOU HAVE NO _IDEA _WHAT IT IS TO BE _**ANGRY!**_"

Edward, as bland and expressionless as ever, calmly reached out and put his hand around Tom's throat.

Edward waited for a moment, almost thoughtfully, for Tom's eyes to widen in realisation and then began to squeeze. Almost immediately Tom's hands began clawing – uselessly – at the hand around his throat and it was proof of just how sharp the younger boy's nails were that he left reddening lines and cuts all over his attacker's hand.

When Tom managed to make a weak and, understandably, strangled noise that might have been a plea for Edward to stop, the elder boy tilted his head to the side – affecting curiosity that he did not feel.

"I'm sure the staff will be very understanding," Edward stated. "You do have a history of unpleasant incidents hanging over you and considering that I found your box of stolen trinkets it's quite understandable that I had to defend myself from you and your bad temper."

Tom's hands began to slow their assault on his attacker as he struggled to stay focused. The lack of air was making it very hard to concentrate on what was happening and Tom glanced helplessly around the room for his deceased guards. It wasn't until his legs began to give out that he remembered that he'd told them they could go visit the graves of Rosie's parents …because obviously nothing could happen to him during the day when everyone was awake.

"There's nothing false about the films and books, you know," Edward stated, intending for the boy to focus on him until his end. "My sister said something similar before she died, but she acted just like all the girls in films when they get caught by the villains."

Tom gurgled faintly, or thought he did, as the room began to blur.

"I never did see why Mother and Father were so upset when they came home," Edward stated. "They were always out so it isn't as if they were affected by not having her."

Tom was confused: he kept hearing Martha's voice – something about kinetic energy and potential energy – but Edward was the one talking and Martha …Tom couldn't recall. There was something about wooden blocks and the nervous woman on the floor. Bleeding, Tom recalled faintly as his hands slipped off Edward's, she was bleeding.

Edward watched him expressionlessly. It didn't really matter to him whether the boy struggled. Perhaps, he reasoned, he would read that book Tom coveted so much later – Tom owed him that much for all the trouble he'd caused, after all.

* * *

"I really don't see why they are all so upset about it," Martha said dryly. "One ruler is very much like another, I find."

"Really, Martha!" Mary murmured as she turned back to fuss over the infant in the nearest crib – who had been disturbed by the shouting from down the hall.

Eleanor, who was leaning against one of the nursery walls (and happened to be covering the letters N and O) shook her head amusedly at the pair – it was rare, after all, to find the doctor in a humorous mood.

"I assure you, Mary, I am quite serious," the doctor continued. "I dare say that even the royalty themselves find that they are quite replaceable – what other possible reason could they have for making their only notable differential be their numerical value?"

Mary couldn't quite stop herself from laughing. When she had once again achieved a relatively straight face and could speak without beginning to giggle, she said, "I think you'll find Martha, that the late King George has been succeeded by his son Edward. Those names, I'm certain you'll grant, are not the same."

The doctor arched an elegant eyebrow. "Indeed, but if Edward number …was it seven or eight… does as he seems inclined to do – judging by how he had her by his side when his accession was proclaimed – and runs off with that _American_ of his," Martha pointed out, "we shall have to hope that Prince Albert keeps his own name, or we shall all lose track of which George or Edward we are supposed to be talking about."

Eleanor sniffed in distaste. "I don't know what he's thinking," she complained, "running around after a married woman. He has a responsibility to his people!"

The sounds of the argument down the corridor came to an abrupt stop and, consequently, the three women traded concerned looks.

"Do you think we should…er," Mary began, but trailed off, hesitantly.

"Is it any of our business if they chose to shout at each other?" the doctor inquired.

Mary frowned at her. "It may have escaped your notice, Doctor," she snapped, "but I only heard Mister Riddle shouting."

"Enough," Eleanor commanded, somewhat vexed. "It is our _duty_ to check in on shouting children." Then she strode out of the room and down the corridor, forcing the other two women to catch up with her if they wished to continue their conversation.

It is almost certain that nothing could have prepared the three colleagues for the sight that met them when they opened the door to the Disturbed Room.

Edward Wolfe stood near his bed, with his back mostly turned to the door, calmly strangling the life out of his young companion and the staff members were so shocked by what they saw that it was not until Tom weakly raised a hand and Edward was suddenly blasted away from him that any of them moved. Mary stumbled backward and leaned against the opposite wall, Eleanor's hand covered her mouth as she gasped and Martha lashed out to grasp the wall – all of which, although perfectly understandable reactions, weren't exactly helpful.

Eleanor Cole had never seem such a look of hatred and loathing as that which graced Tom Riddle's face with a vicious and animalistic grin as he stumbled upright and the fingers of his hand – on the arm which was still extended – twitched.

Edward, who had managed to pull himself upright again and been heading toward Tom as if to finish what he had started, crumpled to the ground. The pained expression and wreathing body of the fifteen year old, however, was something that Eleanor had seen before – years ago, when Tom had been four and a half, and it had been _Martha_ on the floor; surrounded by blood and wooden blocks. Edward, though, seemed to be in far more pain.

"Tom, stop!" the matron commanded.

Tom gave no indication that he had heard her; he merely continued to watch the older boy wreath – wearing a wild-eyed look and a truly vicious smile as he did.

"Maas: _enough_," Martha said, her tone cold and imperious.

Something about it – maybe the tone, maybe the words – seemed to get through to the boy where Eleanor had not, for Tom's eyes widened and his hand fell as he stumbled backward toward his bed. Even from a distance the marks left by Edward's hand were clear upon his neck.

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph," Mary murmured, crossing herself and sliding down the corridor wall as she did.

Martha callously nudged Edward's prone form with her foot, to see if he was still conscious.

Eleanor couldn't help but feel that the two women's reactions perfectly captured how she herself felt about it.

* * *

_**AN:**_

**To Liliana:** Well, it wasn't so much them all thinking that he was not salvageable, as there simply not being place to put him _and _some of them thinking there wasn't much hope for him. But you're quite right, shrinks weren't really 'in' yet and psychological problems weren't really something most normal people thought about – or knew about. I appreciate your approval of Tom's fear – I had a hard time with it and am glad to know you think I got it right.

Well, I've established Martha and Tom's relationship – which is also somewhat more distant since Tom learned about Martha's brother – although it is more a case of other people beginning to play more important roles in Tom's life than of Martha becoming less important to him. As for Tom choosing to get help from his terrifying mother rather than Martha: that choice was driven more by practicality: Martha is alive and therefore cannot stay awake all night, every night, watching over him.

You're precisely right about Amy, by the way. I've always tried to write Tom and Amy's relationship as that of a child and their beloved _pet_. I'm glad my writing has been giving you food for thought and I hope you continue to enjoy it.

**To JoojooBrother:** I'm glad you find my story interesting. My aim with this story has always been to write a historically and canonically accurate history for Tom. Of course, I treat all canon character's statements as suspect to personal biases until proven (by other parts of canon) to be true – for example, I question the trustworthiness of Mrs. Cole's canonical opinions on Tom because she was drunk when she was talking to Dumbledore and we don't know for certain whether it was coloured by personal dislike – so on some occasions I may take routes that are still true to canon, but surprising until thought about.

**To x-Hallelujah-x:** High praise indeed. I just hope that I can live up to it. I'm also very, very pleased to know you appreciate the effort I've put into the research – although I wouldn't want you to keep feeling unintelligent (even if it is only by comparison). *chuckles* I'm glad I'm not the only one who likes to read things that don't include silly romance nonsense. I hope your writing goes well – by the way, if you're afraid you'll get it wrong it's a good sign because it means you've thought about it. As for how I do it? I'm obsessed.


	49. Doctor, Doctor, Jan 31st & Feb 1st, 1936

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** Okay, so I completely fail at keeping to schedules. I had this written very soon after I'd posted the previous chapter - unfortunately the editing process has been very long, very frustrating and far too regularly interrupted. I blame Pottermore. Speaking of which, I can now happily inform you that I am a Pottermore certified Slytherin.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Doctor, Doctor**

It was no odd thing in an orphanage of regularly seventy to eighty orphans (plus staff) that the only medical support therein should regularly have to deal with multiple patients at the same time.

The ability to prioritise in an instant which patients needed her attention, and in what order, and the ability to immediately discern which bystander would make the most useful temporary nurse were what had allowed Doctor M.K. Elder to run the medical aspect of Vauxhall Road Orphanage with such precision as had always befitted a practitioner of her calibre.

It was no surprise, therefore, that she began giving orders mere moments after she had nudged the fallen boy with her foot.

Eleanor barely caught the ring of keys that was tossed to her.

"Give her gin for her nerves," the doctor stated as she crossed the room and lifted the younger boy's chin with a firm hand, "but not a large amount; use the second smallest key to get into the cabinet."

Then, having made a cursory examination of the bruising on Tom's neck, the doctor added, "You'll live, go with them," and turned to make a more proper examination of the unconscious fifteen year old.

Tom somewhat dazedly stumbled off his bed and toward the matron.

"Give him a little gin as well," the doctor added, noting that Eleanor had yet to pull Mary up from the floor and lead her to the infirmary. "Once you've done that make him a cold towel for his throat."

Eleanor was hesitant to leave her old friend – doctor or not – alone in the room with the Wolfe boy, but given the state he was in (and the state Mary and Tom were in) she was forced to acknowledge that she had no other option.

It turned out that helping Mary to her feet was the difficult part of her task, as both the woman and the boy were so shocked by what had happened that they allowed themselves to be led into the next room with little to no difficulty. It was also surprisingly – or, perhaps, alarmingly – easy to get the pair of them settled on a bed (leaning them both against the wall). Eleanor found that convincing them to choke down the liquor was significantly more difficult, but once she had taken a shot of what had once been her favourite poison to calm her own rattled nerves she found it much easier to cope. Personally, she was inclined to believe it was the familiarity of the drink which soothed her more than it was the alcohol, but it certainly seemed to help Mary to calm down. Tom, on the other hand, had come back to himself enough to turn his nose up at the liquid. However, he accepted the compress she placed on his throat without any objection.

It was approximately ten minutes later that Eleanor heard the sharp, unmistakable, sound of a door being firmly shut and the key being turned in its lock. It was followed by a moment of silence, then the click-clack of heels on the corridor floor and a moment or so later Doctor Elder appeared in the doorway – with a grim air to her practically blank expression and without the decorative blue scarf she had been wearing around her neck.

* * *

Tom Riddle had always been an emotionally straightforward child. If he was happy everyone knew about it (the wide, animalistic smiles and the peculiar laughter made it quite unmistakable) and when he was angry everyone knew about it (the yelling was also unmistakable). It was only sadness and insecurity that he ever seemed determined to conceal. It was for that reason that the blank expression he had worn, when he was led away by the matron, disturbed the doctor.

Wolfe, on the other hand, never had shown very much of anything and his continued lack of expression as he returned to consciousness made Doctor Elder suspect – although she was not trained in the medicine of the mind – that the boy might simply be incapable of connecting emotionally to anything.

Doctor Elder put those thoughts out of her head as best she could and surveyed the occupants of her infirmary.

Tom had curled up on one of the infirmary beds. By keeping his legs tucked up to his chest and his chin bowed to it he effectively kept himself as small as possible while also holding the cold compress snugly in place against his bruised throat.

"Wolfe is showing signs of multiple forms of nerve damage," the doctor stated, somewhat blandly, as she tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement of her colleagues, "but the damage appears to be minor."

There was a slight pause, almost implicative of hesitance, before the doctor turned directly to the matron. She swallowed and began to speak again, "Eleanor…"

"I know," the matron replied, standing as she did so. "I shall go and make the call." There was a sort of grimness between the colleagues as Eleanor held the doctor's gaze steadily for a moment, then nodded once and walked out of the room.

Martha stood silently in the middle of her infirmary. When Mary's rather unsubtle flickering glances at Tom began to irritate her, the doctor sat down behind her desk and leaned back in her chair.

"Problem?" she inquired in a distinctly cold and unpleasantly biting tone.

Mary started violently and turned to stare at her, wide-eyed and trembling all the while. "I know what I saw," the blonde woman muttered.

A hint of a smile almost touched the corner of the doctor's mouth, for – in saying what she had – Mary had inadvertently revealed exactly what was bothering her.

"Why is it," Martha inquired dryly, "that you religious people automatically assume that everything different than you – everything that frightens you – is evil?"

Mary's eyes, if possible, became wider.

"I would assume it was written in those silly little sacred texts of yours," the doctor theorised aloud – noting as she did, with some pleasure, that Mary's fingers were clenched in fury.

"However," the doctor continued, "it is a rare occasion when your holy written words' meanings are not disagreed over. Those occasions inevitably result in _un_written assumptions becoming accepted as fact, so I suppose I shall never know."

"The Catholics," Mary began.

Doctor Elder's expression wasn't exactly disdainful, but there was the definite implication of more than mere boredom in it as she coolly said, "I've never bothered with the differences between your silly little groups. You all worship something which has not been empirically proven to exist – which, in fact, is completely lacking in evidence – and so you are all equally ridiculous."

Mary closed her eyes tightly and, in a tone that threatened to become fairly shrill if she became any angrier, she asked, "Is there _something _you are _trying _to _**say**_, Martha?"

"I merely was curious as to why – when you see him do something impossible – you immediately assume he is a demon and not an angel," the doctor replied in her customary bland tone.

Mary's eyes flew open and she stared at the doctor in undisguised shock.

Martha graced her with a small, tight smile and – as calmly as ever – added, "Now get out of my infirmary."

* * *

Tom knew it was a very bad idea to sneak back into his room – but Rosie had assured him that Edward was tied down and he really wanted his warmer socks. He wasn't sure why he even bothered to ask Rosie for help …after all, she and his mother had failed him when he needed them most and (after some of Rosie's comments about him and death) Tom was almost inclined to believe that they had purposefully allowed him to be attacked. _The ghosts will have to go,_ Tom decided as he used his gift to unlock the door and slipped into the wardrobe, _just as soon as Edward is gone._

Edward did not seem to be the slightest bit surprised when Tom climbed out of their wardrobe and began to search through the drawers. Tom was more unnerved by the lack of reaction than he usually was – although that was probably due to the fact that Edward somehow managed to be more disturbing when tied to his bed than he usually was.

"They're going to take me away, you know," Edward stated, watching Tom with somewhat unfocused eyes.

"Good," Tom bit out as he continued to seek his warmer socks.

"That's not very friendly," Edward stated.

Tom tensed slightly. "We aren't friends," he replied.

"I gave you a box full of gifts – which is still under my bed – isn't that friendly?" Edward asked, although it came out (as ever) like a statement.

Tom spun around and spat at him, "I have no friends."

"Dennis," Edward stated.

"Was an _idiot_," Tom snapped immediately, biting his tongue afterward to keep himself from adding that Dennis had been _his _idiot. He had the feeling that Edward could still see the truth in his eyes, though.

"You're like me, then," the fifteen year old stated, tilting his head on the pillow to get a better look at his companion.

"I am _nothing_ like you!" Tom hissed; grasping the pair of socks he had been searching for with a trembling hand.

"Not yet," Edward stated.

Tom turned to climb back through the wardrobe, his face was ashen.

"They're going to take me to a madhouse," Edward stated. "They'll come for you, too, one day."

Tom tried to sneer. "Why would they do that?" he inquired with lofty distain.

"This is the room for disturbed children," Edward stated. "What does that tell you?"

Tom didn't bother with the pretence of bravery as he fled the room.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Tom slipped back through the wardrobe and into his room. Insubstantial fears brought on by Edward's comments – about them being alike and about the _gift_ he had given Tom – had been causing Tom's stomach to turn all night and he finally could take no more.

The boy crept as quietly as he could into his room and toward the insane boy – thankful all the while that Martha had not bothered to untie the fifteen year old from the bed. However, the young man, frankly, smelled of urine – Tom wasn't sure whether the doctor didn't know or simply didn't care about that.

In the darkness, Tom moved as stealthily as he could toward the occupied bed. He knew he only had a few minutes before Martha would return to the infirmary, but he was too worried to leave the box of stolen items under Edward's bed. He was all too aware that when it was found – _if_ it was found, Tom reminded himself sharply – Edward would blame it on Tom and Tom would probably get in trouble. It _had_ to be placed somewhere that would not be searched for 'dangerous items' (as Mrs. Cole had put it) like Edward's side of the room and his side of the wardrobe …which meant that it had to go on Tom's side of the room, or in Tom's side of the wardrobe.

Tom gave the still figure in the bed a final, terrified look (although, in the dark, he could see little more than the boy's outline) and sank to the floor. Then, swallowing tightly before he did, he began to crawl under the man boy's bed – reaching out blindly as he did, seeking for the box that had caused him so much concern.

After what felt like forever, Tom's small hands found the side of the box and he grasped it tightly – shifting backward, out from under the bed, as noiselessly as possible.

"Aren't you scared of me, Tom?" a voice asked in the darkness.

Tom's head jerked upward and he stared at the space in the darkness where Edward surely was. The realisation that Edward may have been awake the entire time – may have even been awake _and untied_ the entire time – made him near nauseous with terror.

Tom licked his lips nervously and replied, "As you said yourself, they are going to take you away soon – and you'll be locked up forever."

"And we shall never see each other again," Edward stated, and his voice's point of origin was unpleasantly difficult to identify in the blackness. "Unless," Edward stated, "we share a room again."

Tom sprung almost violently to his feet, clutching the box more tightly than was strictly necessary. "We shall _never_ share a room again," he hissed. "Only one of us is mad!"

"Which one?" asked Edward.

Tom refused to answer and, with his lips tightly shut, made his way back to the wardrobe. It took some fumbling for him to hide the box in a corner on his side of the wardrobe, but eventually he succeeded and slipped back out of the room.

There was an adult waiting for him.

Mary leaned against the edge of the doctor's desk, drumming her fingers anxiously against the hard wood as she did.

"I'm sorry!" Tom blurted. "I'm sorry: I know I shouldn't have gone in there! I needed my socks! And I was worried!" Tom breathed heavily, allowing his actual confusion at Edward's actions and his actual alarm at being caught to work him into a frenzy – he knew very well that the best lie or act was the one which was sincere. "He attacked me," Tom continued, in a somewhat hysterical tone which reached its crescendo in an aggravated wail. "I just wanted to know _wh__**y**_!"

Mary's reaction to the unexpected outburst and tearfulness was to hug the boy, shush him and urge him to bed. As she left the room, once Tom was in bed again, the recently returned doctor made a dry comment about Mary having been hit too many times on the head when she was a child. Tom wasn't sure what that meant, but he figured it might explain why Mary had always been so easy to get things from.

* * *

It was far too early in the morning for normal people to be waking when a terrible crash came from inside the Disturbed Room.

Tom jerked up in the infirmary bed, breathing heavily from the fright. He blinked vaguely, overwhelmed by the light, and then frowned. It felt too early for there to be so much light – and a second glance assured him that it was, in fact, artificial.

There was another crash from the Disturbed Room. However, this time it was followed by a groan – which sounded, to Tom, like Edward.

"Falling and difficulty walking can be signs of nerve damage," a woman said from inside the other room. Tom was fairly certain that it was Doctor Elder.

"At least he'll be easier to escort," a second person – a man Tom couldn't identify – replied.

"I shall never go with you," Edward stated, his toneless voice at odds with the dramatic wording. "I will not be strapped down in a room like an animal."

Tom frowned, slipped out of bed and crossed the infirmary as quietly as he could. It was still too much noise for him to be entirely certain what was happening in the other room, but from the sounds he _could_ hear he had the feeling that Edward was being escorted out of the room. The doorknob was cold in his hand, but Tom very carefully turned it (the thought of what was going on outside the infirmary, after all, was far more chilling than any metal could be) and opened the door a crack.

Edward was indeed being escorted toward the stairs, mostly being held up by the two large men on either side of him. A third man, in a long coat, was speaking to the matron and doctor, his hushed tones floating incomprehensibly to Tom's ears as he did.

Suddenly, Edward jerked his head around to get a good look at the matron once again. "The missing toys are in a box, you know," he stated.

Tom felt almost as if his hear had stopped for a moment. _He wouldn't,_ the boy thought; although he knew perfectly well that it was a ridiculous denial because he had known Edward long enough to know that he certainly _would_.

"Are they?" Mrs. Cole inquired dryly.

"They are in a box," Edward stated, "in the room: with Tom."

"I see," the matron replied – and Tom could tell from her tone that she was at least partially willing to believe that much.

"Tell them to let me go," Edward stated.

"Why would we do that?" Mrs. Cole asked him, astounded by the young man's gall.

"You owe me," Edward stated, resisting the men (who were pulling on his arms) as best he could when he did. "You owe me for telling you about Tom's box of toys, so you have to tell them to let me go."

Tom was trying somewhat desperately to control his breathing – trying to keep it quiet as it became faster and shallower with panic – and he stumbled backward. He knew perfectly well that the matron was not going to let Edward go – he would be taken away by the strange doctors (for he now knew they were doctors; doctors for insane people) – but he also knew that Mrs. Cole was_ bound_ to check up on what Edward had said: and Tom had the box on his side of the wardrobe, so Tom would receive the blame.

_No, no, no, no, no_, the boy thought frantically. _Bending light, bending light, don't be seen: please don't be seen_. Tom climbed back into the infirmary bed he had been using, eager to appear asleep as the tell tale sound of high heels click-clacking on the floor came steadily closer, and hoped.

In the next room, in a dark corner of a once-grand wardrobe, a reasonably small box seemed to shimmer slightly – almost as if the light hitting it did not know what to do with it – and then, almost as if it had never been, it faded from sight.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Dhelana Joie: **Well this chapter probably hasn't been amazing, so perhaps that is helpful in a truly twisted way? ;P

**To Sarafina24:** I'm sorry I've taken so long to update (somehow it always seems to happen when someone's asked me to update soon… personally, I blame the ironic overpower for it). I'm very pleased to know that you like my portrayal of Tom – and I'm also very glad to know that you appreciate the research …that era has always been one of my favourites. I hope you continue enjoy the story.

**To Aribh1306:** Hello again! I can hardly blame you for reading here instead of LJ – I still need to get around to linking between chapters and making posts that direct to all of them. I'll get to that once the whole fic is finished; that way I won't forget anything.

I'm really glad to know that you liked how I handled the cave incident (I wrote it that way because I – like you – found it hard to believe that it was on purpose). I'm also glad to know you find Amy both annoying and adorable – that means I've got the character working right.

Regardless of whether your translation was perfect or not, I quite like that quote. I hope next time you have to describe such a concept in a fic you have an easier time of it. …I'm also really thrilled to know that scene made your day. It's always an honour to hear that something you've written has had that much of an emotional result.

That anatomy teacher sounds like a wise person. Trying to help people could be considered a noble reason, true, but it's much more important to do something that you love and are interested in – otherwise either your good intentions will eventually fade or you just won't be as good at it as whatever natural gift you put aside for your 'noble' cause …in which case you could do more damage than good. Well, you're rambling and I'm waxing philosophical.

Merope isn't exactly the sort of character who's supposed to make you comfortable with her presence. *wry smile* You did indeed see what I did there. It's both a reference to the pub in Little Hangleton and the tarot card.

That's hardly surprising – Edward's entire character is modelled on the true psychopaths my mother used to work with in the psychiatric ward where she ...used to work. I phrased that sentence terribly. Either way, Edward is essentially what Tom is going to grow up to be (which is why he's the same age, roughly, that Tom was when Tom started killing people in canon) and many fanwriters would have Tom behaving like that from the start because they don't have someone who actually worked with psychopaths to tell them what's wrong with/unrealistic about that.


	50. You're Next: Feb to June, 1936

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty: You're Next**

Tom looked into the warm room with a hesitant expression on his face. The majority of the children – and the staff – had congregated in the warm drawing room, all listening silently to the radio.

Tom had never been particularly interested in sporting events and so found the eagerness of so many others to sit about tensely listening for news of the Winter Olympics rather baffling. Nevertheless, the little boy was somewhat thankful for it – as the start of the sporting event had been the first reprieve he'd had since Edward had been taken away.

Whispers and cruel comments were nothing Tom was not long accustomed to, of course. He had long since given up on trying to befriend the others – it was, as he understood it, just a part of the way the world worked: children laughed, whispers were traded, birds flew, fish swam and Tom wasn't welcome. Nevertheless, the taking (or, to most, disappearance) of Edward Wolfe had given Tom's attackers a sudden increase of 'evidence' to fuel the fires of their hate.

_Tom the weird. Tom the freak. There's something __**wrong**__ with Tommy. _Those words, those sentiments, had been a normal fact of his life for …as long as he could remember, honestly. He did his best not to let them realise it, but many nights he had lain awake wondering what it was about him – what could be so intrinsically _wrong_ with him, or odd about him – that could make them hate him so much for existing. Sometimes he would conclude that there must be something about him that was intrinsically wrong, because everyone seemed to automatically know he was different, to steer away from him because of it. Other times he would conclude that_ they_ were the ones there was something wrong with – because they were stupid, because he was smarter, because _Martha said_ they were jealous and scared. Sometimes he concluded nothing, for the whole matter made no logical sense, and would appear in the mornings with great dark rings under his eyes …and the other children, then, would laugh and point and whisper all the more. _There's something __**wrong**__ with Tommy._

Once the news had spread that Edward had been moved from the Disturbed Room to a …madhouse, the rumours had spread like wildfire. Tom, it was whispered, had lived in the Disturbed Room longer than Edward. Tom had been there when Dennis hung himself. Dennis was dead and Edward dragged off to... wherever it was that insane people were sent. The last two people to live in the Disturbed Room were mad, the children would agree in hushed tones, for they had killed themselves and been dragged away in the early morning hours… taken secretly, by doctors from an institution. Obviously, the children all agreed, if Tom had lived so long in the Disturbed Room, Tom must also be mad. It was just a matter of time, they agreed, before he was also taken away; taken by the strange men who had been – by one eyewitness account – wearing white coats.

The children, as they ever were with their taunts and biting comments, were careful not to be overheard by any of the staff – while at the same time Tom overheard all of it; they made sure he did.

In the six days, roughly, since Edward had been taken, Tom had learned to loathe those two little words – be they whispered, or sneered, or scrawled on a note passed to him in class – _you're next_. Words made all the more terrifying by the fact that the logic behind them, such as it was, seemed to be sound.

Tom looked into the warm room with a hesitant expression on his face. The majority of the children – and the staff – had congregated in the warm drawing room, all listening silently to the radio. He did not dare to go in.

* * *

Quiet music was playing in the staffroom.

Eleanor would have been inclined to assume that one of the children had entered the staffroom without permission and taken the radio from the drawing room with them, but she knew that they were all either in class or in the nursery and would continue to be so for the next few hours.

The matron brushed a few locks of her pale hair away from her face and curiously entered the room. The source of the music, as it happened, was the old gramophone on the low table which stood amid the main cluster of comfortable chairs.

An elegant hand, which bore an elegant watch around its pale wrist, reached out from behind the high back of a chair and picked up the glass which was sitting – of all places – on the mantelpiece of the fireplace.

"It's rare for you to choose to sit in communal places, Doctor," the matron observed.

There was a pause, which somehow set a solemn tone for to the conversation.

When the doctor finally spoke, she sounded weary. "I have been alone for the majority of my life, Eleanor." There was a momentary silence as the doctor took a sip from her glass and swallowed. "There are times when even the most solitary of creatures may seek the illusion of company."

Eleanor sighed. "When did we start growing old, Martha?" she asked as she moved around the low table to sit in one of the empty chairs. "I look in the mirror each morning and I see wrinkles that ought not be there …not yet."

"You are made weary by your concern," Doctor Elder replied. "You are careworn."

The matron looked across at her companion with a curious expression on her face. "And you?" she inquired, looking pointedly toward the doctor's unmarred skin. "You are my elder and yet one would think you were the younger of us. Why are you not careworn?"

"Because I do not care," Martha replied in a cool, dry and utterly factual tone.

Eleanor considered this statement for a moment before replying. "You seemed to care when the Germans reoccupied the Rhineland," she pointed out.

"They are violating the Treaty of Versailles," Martha stated, not looking up from the papers she was studying. She seemed unconcerned by the fact that her record had ended and silence, rather than quiet music, occupied the moments in which neither party spoke.

Eleanor made an exasperated noise and shook her head slightly in frustration. "They are practically walking into their own garden!" she exclaimed.

Martha looked over her papers at the matron, whilst wearing an expression that seemed to imply that she was trying to figure out if Eleanor could really be that idiotic and naïve.

After a moment, Eleanor decided that it was most likely safer – or, at the very least, less likely to cause another frustrating political debate – to change the subject.

"The legal paperwork has all finally been finished, filed and so forth," Eleanor said. "They were able to find a relative of the Wolfe boy, one who was willing to take care of him should he ever…"

"Recover mentally and be allowed back into society," Martha finished coolly. "An unnecessary search on their part, but I admire their thoroughness."

Eleanor sighed again, unaware of a creaking sound behind her, and replied, "I wish I didn't agree with you about that. Yet you are correct: he tried to strangle another child to death; he cannot be allowed out amongst others."

After a moment she gazed with concern at Martha and it was clear from the sympathetic and worried look in her eyes that her thoughts had drifted from Edward Wolfe to Tom Riddle. "How has the boy been?" the matron asked.

Martha pursed her lips, thoughtfully, and paused in the act of raising her glass to her mouth. "The incident," she began carefully, "seems to have made …the worst possible impression upon his mind."

Eleanor snorted. "He was nearly murdered," she stressed, "and practically in front of us! I fail to see how that could make anything but the worst of possible impressions."

"It bothers you that we were almost too late?" the doctor inquired.

Eleanor bit her lip. "I don't like the boy, Martha," she admitted. "I never have."

Doctor Elder raised an eyebrow slightly, as if to imply that the fact was blatantly obvious.

"It shouldn't have happened," Mrs. Cole murmured; her tone laced with bitterness and self-reproach. "It should not have happened and it did. _It did_ and I _cannot_ help but wonder if it would have gone that far if I had been paying more attention …if I would have paid more attention if it had been a child I did not _dislike_."

Martha swallowed, set her glass down upon the mantelpiece once more and stared levelly at her companion. "I shall watch over Tom," she stated. "You just watch that you stay away from the gin."

Outside the room, listening by the door, stood Samuel Chase – who had managed to slip out of his classes that day in favour of mischief. He considered, for a time, all that he had heard and then – slowly – an almost wicked smile spread across his face.

* * *

March had waned into April – and April, in turn, to May – and still the harassment Tom faced from the other children had not decreased to its normal amount.

Tom knew – technically – that when he had been very little he had played with the other children in the nursery …including Sammy, who was now somewhere around twelve years old (Tom couldn't be bothered to recall whether or not his birthday had come yet, that year, not since Sammy had stopped liking him). Tom also remembered what it was like playing with Dennis… but Dennis had always been in the difficult position of being considered a creep on account of being Tom's friend.

In his head, Tom once again heard the whispers of the other children – the one phrase that had been repeated ever since Edward left. _You're next_, the mingled voices hissed, _you're next._

Tom knew that once upon a time he had not been considered strange, but he could not actually remember what it was like. If he were to trust his memory and not the statements of the staff (whom all too often were trying to encourage him to be like the others so he wouldn't be left out – as if _he_ were the one who ought to change and was in the wrong) then it had always been that the other children called him names when the staff were not present. If he trusted his memory, the others had whispered and pointed and delighted in mentioning that it was a _shame _that he had not died with his mother …especially when they knew he could hear them – some even dared say such things to his face.

_You're next,_ the remembered voices stated,_ you're next._

Tom knew that children were cruel. That fact could not stop their words from hurting – no matter how much he tried to ignore them and forget that it happened – nor could that fact, that rationalisation, make him hate them any less for what they did and said.

_You're next_, asserted the laughing voices, _you're next._

He hated Sammy most. Sammy was the one who persecuted him most. If he was being completely honest, though, what he hated most about Sammy was that Sammy was moderately intelligent – intelligent enough to seek 'evidence' of Tom's abnormality …evidence which he then delighted in sharing with the rest of the orphans, thereby 'justifying' they're desire to keep Tom out of their lives (except, of course, when it amused them to point out what was wrong with him). Worse still, Tom reasoned, Sam knew that Tom valued logic and evidence – so unlike the other children, who never could come up with good reasons for ostracising Tom, Sam always had some sort of argument on hand …and it _bothered_ Tom, far more than anything else did, because when Sam said he was worthless, or a creep or that there was something _wrong _with him, he always made it sound _**rational**_.

_You're next,_ the memory of voices echoed in his head again, _you're next._

Perhaps, Tom reasoned,_ that_ was why the mocking words and whispers of the other children – which had been standard to the point of _almost ignorable_ in his life so far – were beginning to bother him more and more.

_You're next_, the voices hissed, _you're next._ _There's something_ _**wrong **__with you; you're next. _

Tom scowled to himself as he walked toward the infirmary – unconcerned by the fact that he was supposed to be in class. It wasn't as if he would be missed.

_That's because you're next_, the memories whispered, in a sing-song way, _you're next._

He wasn't, of course, and he knew that – he was perfectly sane. He wasn't going anywhere.

_You're next,_ the whispers argued, you're next. _Denny, Eddy, Tommy – you're next, you're next, you're next._

"I AM NOT!" Tom yelled, frustrated.

"You're certainly not where you're supposed to be," Doctor Elder stated.

Tom turned, surprised, to find her standing in the open doorway to the infirmary.

The doctor raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

"I'm not crazy," Tom told her, unaware as he did of the almost desperate note in his voice. "I am no_t_." Then, plaintively, he added, "They keep saying I'm crazy. They say I'm like_ Edward._"

"You are not like Edward," Doctor Elder stated.

Tom considered this. "So I'm not crazy," he concluded.

The doctor raised an eyebrow again. "Logical fallacy," she replied. "There are many different ways to be crazy. One does not have to be like Edward to be insane."

"You're not helping," Tom told her.

The doctor was silent for a moment, as if considering whether Tom was old enough to hear what she had to say. "It is my medical opinion, although I am not technically a psychiatrist, that you are understandably bitter, potentially vindictive and _alarmingly sane_ for someone who has suffered as many odd happenings and emotional upsets as you have."

Tom relaxed slightly.

"It is also my opinion that you are not where you are currently supposed to be," Doctor Elder added.

Tom wrinkled his nose. "Class is boring," he said. "I know everything already and the others are so _slow _about learning it."

Martha idly waved him toward the infirmary. When Tom looked at her in surprise, she explained her sudden disregard for his schooling.

"To be where one is not supposed to be and learn is, one might say, a crime," the doctor stated, "but to be where one _is _supposed to be and learn_ nothing_ is a tragedy."

* * *

In the near distance – if there was such a thing – Tom could see the other children playing in the shadow of Stonehenge.

"Children are naturally cruel," Tom told his companions.

The bird blinked, the snake tilted its head curiously and Amy stretched out further in the summer sunshine.

Unconcerned by the apparent apathy of his audience, Tom continued, "I'm a child, therefore it's natural that I'm cruel." He paused for a moment, then added, "Of course, it's wrong to be cruel, so either children are naturally wrong or it's not wrong to be cruel. Unless that means that children are only occasionally cruel or it's occasionally right to be cruel, but that would be going into ethics and Martha says we're going to study logic and reasoning – and keep experimenting with my abilities – before we try ethics. So for now I'm practising logical analysis. Snakes enjoy sunshine, I enjoy sunshine; therefore I am a snake. Only that's falla… falla… _fallacious_, because snakes are not the only beings that enjoy sunshine."

"Odd," the snake stated.

Tom could not help but smile at the musical tone of the hiss. "It is called a syllogism – a type of logical reasoning," he explained. "Martha taught me that ...about a month ago, I think."

"Martha," the little smooth snake repeated. "That is one of the big mute ones, is it? How can it communicate so much if it doesn't project anything?"

Tom giggled. "_She_," he replied, "makes noise."

The smooth snake nodded slightly. "She must be very clever, then," she said.

"She is!" Tom exclaimed brightly.

The carrion crow, who had been looking at Amy as if trying to decide whether or not she would make a good perch, ruffled its feathers.

Tom immediately reached out apologetically and stroked its head.

Once the bird had been appeased, Tom continued more quietly, "She is very clever," he hissed. "Sometimes she says things to me that I don't understand, but that's because she expects me to be as clever as she is …like when Italy annexed Ethiopia. I don't know what annexed is and I don't know where Ethiopia is, but she told me all about it anyway. I think she needed someone intelligent to complain about it with."

"Tommy?" Amy asked suddenly, standing up and wandering closer. "Where did I put my second sandwich?"

Tom sighed and pulled it out of his pocket, where she had asked him to save it until she was hungry again.

The smooth snake hissed slightly in irritation. "Ask her to take two steps to the left," the little snake implored, "she's blocking the sun."

For what felt like the first time in half a year, Tom laughed freely.

* * *

_**A/N:**_

**To I Have Secrets I Won't Share:** Thank you. It's always a pleasure to meet a fellow Snake.

**To Quadrillionaire:** I'm glad you liked the story – especially that you liked it enough to go looking for it again. Well, the thing with the psychopath issue… is that in canon Voldemort emotes. When things go wrong he gets angry – and a real psychopath would get violent, but not angry because they don't feel emotions. So while J.K. Rowling herself called Voldemort a 'raging psychopath' (which is itself contradictory) his actions in her writing make that diagnosis medically inaccurate. By the time he's a teenager he's insane, but psychopath is the wrong type of insane.

You're quite right to say that I'm aiming for smart and misguided, because that's what I saw in canon in the eleven year old Tom.

Tom was never in a mental asylum, canonically, though. When Dumbledore met him he was in the orphanage and convinced that Dumbledore was there to _take him to_ a mental asylum, but he wasn't actually in one.

To answer your final question: Martha puts evidence before everything else. So while she had logically concluded before that there could be nothing after death, the evidence that she has had of the reality of Merope and Rosie forces her to acknowledge that she may be wrong, but she's not going to accept anything beyond what she has been able to prove scientifically about it.

**To Shebali:** If he made you that uncomfortable then I guess I did my job right when I decided to portray an accurate psychopath. I'll be sure to pass on your respects to Mum. Quite understandable, although …now that you've read it once you can always skip over those bits.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** No apologies! You're under no obligation to review. Well, he didn't try to kill Tom right off the bat – admittedly it was only a month he was there, but he attacked because Tom (quite correctly) ripped into the source of Edward's self understanding: he pointed out that without films and books Edward doesn't actually have a personality.

I'll be sure to try and remember to look you up next time I log in to Pottermore, then.

Mum preferred to work with the neurotic patients, if I recall correctly. As for Tom? I don't believe in good and evil – and psychopaths aren't the only type of insane and violent people in the world. Tom at this point is bitter and ostracised because he is different, but eventually – not in this story – he goes insane. Not psychopathic – because Voldemort canonically shows real emotions, not pleasant emotions, but real emotions – but insane.

**To Anla'shok:** Hello there formerly anonymous!

She actually did tie Edward down with it. Make shift solution to the problem and all. You're right about that, Edward was naïve in his own way.

I'm sorry to say that I won't be writing the sequels I had planned for this story – which would have been his Hogwarts years – so if you find it too weird to picture him going to Hogwarts you can know that I won't be writing that bit. I wish I could write the sequels, but I just don't have time – I need to get my original writing done, since that's where I intend to make my living. I will, however, be making the notes for the sequels available if you – or anyone else – decide you want them once this story is done. I hope you continue to enjoy, either way.


	51. Billy Stubb's Bookcase: Sept 23rd, 1936

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-One: Billy Stubbs' Bookcase**

The new boy was a brute.

Albeit a brute that tenderly cuddled his pet rabbit but a brute nonetheless – Tom could tell. The combination of lacking intelligence (as evidenced in the boy's eyes), the self assurance in the boy's actions, the poor upbringing and the thick, heavy set muscular figure of the new eleven year old made his brutish nature indubitable.

Tom, who made a study of every new child in order to try and classify them by arrival reason, thought that Sherlock Holmes (had he been a real person) would have been rather proud of him.

As Tom had tried to explain to Amy, that the new boy's family had been poor was obvious from the state of his wardrobe, that he had been loved was obvious in the way he handled the healthy rabbit and that he openly displayed his concern for the animal in front of his new peers proved his self assurance (for even the most distraught of young boys would not have so unabashedly doted on their pet without fear of social critique unless they were quite self confident).

Tom had no intention of bothering Billy Stubbs if Stubbs did not bother him, but as the boy seemed the type to fall in with – or, potentially, take over – any one of the many groups of boys who enjoyed mocking Tom, the nine and a half year old really couldn't see that as being at all likely.

On the other hand, Tom was hardly the only child who was not precisely …thrilled… with the new arrival, so if Tom was in luck Stubbs would turn his attention on them first.

It was really, therefore, a piece of luck for Tom that Mary had begged – and convinced at the cost of some of her salary – Mrs. Cole to let Stubbs keep the animal. Mrs. Cole, Tom knew, had been extremely reluctant to allow it for (even with a somewhat devoted patron) they were struggling at times to keep all the children fed well.

Simon Hughes, Tom happened to know, had actually muttered – quite seriously – that if it ate too much it would become rabbit stew. Nevertheless, the divide amongst the staff on the matter had been nothing compared to that of the orphans.

A great many of the children simply thought that it was adorable and wanted to cuddle it. On the other side of the debate were, for one, the small number of orphans – mostly the very oldest – who didn't think the frivolity for one child was money well spent. More importantly, though, were the majority of the children on that other – anti-rabbit – side: children who muttered mutinously because _they'd_ had beloved pets once and had not been able to keep them.

Tom liked the rabbit. He had never seen it up close, but he knew that it – at least –would never have anything hateful to say to, or about, him.

* * *

It all started with a book.

…Well, actually, if Tom were to be completely honest, it had started when the new boy had failed to answer a simple question correctly – because he had been too preoccupied by passing notes with Sammy – and Mr. Stone had then asked Tom to give the answer.

Tom had given the correct answer, and some additional data, of course; because the question had been _simple_. Unfortunately, the ugly expression Stubbs had cast at him suggested that Stubbs had somehow been mortally offended by the revelation of his own stupidity.

It had been the day that the nine and ten year old boys were required to help stack the plates after each meal and bring them to the kitchen, so Tom had to wait until after completing his dinner and doing his part of the work (which had actually been most of the work, because the other boys in his age group were more than happy to make things as difficult for him as possible – and they could never understand how Tom managed to keep his stacks from falling) to go in search of Mrs. Cole and request a book from the locked shelves.

The procedure for book-requesting was fairly simple – one went to the adult with the key to that particular bookshelf (usually Mrs. Cole) and asked for the book one wanted. If the adult was satisfied that one had no chores or assignments to complete, and that the book was appropriate for one's age, the key would be handed over and one would be able to retrieve the book… and required to note down one's name, the book's title and the date before relocking the bookshelf-cupboard and returning the key to the adult.

It was a very standard, very simple, procedure, with which Tom could only find one fault – the adults always were underestimating his reading ability and worrying over his choice of books. It was for that reason that Tom had made a cunning plan before ever asking Mrs. Cole for what he'd wanted that day.

Tom had asked, after giving the appropriate answers about his responsibilities (yes to chores done, yes to assignments done, no to recent misbehaviour – Tom didn't bother to mention the girl he'd made cry, she'd only wanted him to do her research assignment for her, anyway), for H.G. Well's _The Open Conspiracy_. Mrs. Cole, as expected, had fretted and frowned because – in her opinion – the book was too mature for Tom (obviously she was unaware that he had already read Martha's copy). Then, having received his expected answer, Tom had given a show of disappointment and thoughtfulness and asked for _Five Red Herrings _by Dorothy L. Sayers …which had been the book he had _actually_ wanted.

Mrs. Cole had considered this, clearly a bit worried by the fact that Tom was asking for a murder mystery, but the mix of disappointment and faint hope Tom was expressing won over concerns – just as Tom had hoped, she hadn't the heart to turn down two book requests in a row when he so clearly had his hopes up.

Tom had thanked the matron very graciously for the key and run off to get his book (ignoring, as he did, the shout from Mr. Cole that he shouldn't be running in the corridors). He had practically been bouncing with energy as he took the book out and struggled to neatly scrawl his name, the title and the date into the logbook.

In days to come, when Tom was older, wiser and being asked ridiculous questions about 'why', Tom would silently reflect to himself that – while there had been _no_ one turning point – he was inclined to blame the book. It would have sounded appropriately dramatic, if a tad ridiculous, to own that one's destiny had been decided by a piece of stationary.

"You're going to be in trouble," a voice from nearby announced, with a distinct note of pleasure in it.

Tom, long used to such proclamations whenever one of his enemies – and he did think of them as enemies, because they fit the dictionary definition of that _perfectly_ – found him alone, calmly finished relocking the bookshelf, closed the logbook and turned around. He raised an eyebrow at the Stubbs boy, mentally concluded that he was too new and too stupid to know what the logbook was for and began to walk away.

"I'm talking to you, stupid!" Stubbs snapped, annoyed by the lack of response.

Tom's right hand clenched around the novel. He was _no__**t **_stupid.

Stubbs – who Tom had been trying to walk past – then did something which no other orphan had dared try to do to Tom since Tom was moved into the Disturbed Room; he pulled the book out of Tom's hands.

"Give that back!" Tom commanded, with an unfortunate note of anxiety creeping into his voice.

Stubbs looked at the book curiously for a moment, then shook his head. "I'll take this," he said, "it's _obviously_ too old for you."

Tom flinched, recognising that the elder boy was repeating the word that Tom had used to answer the question Stubbs had failed at. Tom's left hand twitched – he knew this was about revenge for the other boy and he knew that with a single flick of his hand and a bit of concentration he could have the boy on the ground wreathing in agony like Edward, but if Stubbs related the incident to _anyone_ it would get back to Mrs. Cole, Martha or Mary …and they would know _exactly_ what he had done. The approval of the staff – especially Mary, who had only just recently re-convinced herself that he was a good person; Tom knew Martha had a hand in that, but wasn't certain how – was Tom's best defence against the other children. Tom's habit of hanging around near the adults was the only reason that so few of the children had dared change from attacking him emotionally to attacking him physically. The best option here was to appear to give in, then go straight to Mrs. Cole and explain.

"It's obviously too _intelligent_ for _you_," Tom replied a moment after Stubbs had finished speaking (which, if nothing else, showed just how quickly he had analysed the entire situation and just how quickly his mouth tended to run off without him).

Stubbs flushed an ugly shade of red.

Tom, sensing that he might just have tipped the balance of power in his own favour, extended a hand and firmly stated, "Give me my book and I shan't report this to the matron. There's no need for you to have a black mark on your record the very day you arrive."

Stubbs seemed to hesitate, although he had not actually made any move.

"You already have enough people angry at you for being allowed to keep your rabbit," Tom continued. "You really do not need any more enemies."

Before anything actually happened, Tom could see in the other boy's eyes that he had pushed a little too far. The fist to the face he received a moment later was only further proof of that.

Tom stumbled backward; only to have the book flung at him at high speed – fast enough, in fact, that when it hit his midsection he doubled over from the force of the impact.

"You're a creep," Stubbs told him, and Tom could tell from the almost-pause at the end of the sentence that Stubbs didn't even know his name. "Don't you dare try and threaten me," Stubbs added, trying to regain a bit of the power in the situation, and stalked off.

Tom, who had fallen to his knees at some point without even realising it, gave a choked, pained laugh – more of a gasp than anything else – and stared down at his book.

There was blood on his murder mystery novel. It was coming from his nose.

* * *

Doctor Elder had spoken to the matron on Tom's behalf regarding the damage to the book. Tom's suggestion that the bloodstains were – at least – thematic had not really helped, but even the matron had not been able to argue that Tom was somehow responsible for bleeding over a book …especially not when he was still holding tissue under his nose and had a definite and clear bruise forming around his nose and beneath his left eye.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Cole had given Tom a few sharp words – which Tom suspected were _supposed_ to have been sympathetic – about not letting himself be drawn into fights before she left. Tom found it quite amazing that she could turn things (without, he suspected, even realising it) so that Tom was the one in the wrong even when all that had happened was that he had stood there and been hit for absolutely no reason.

Tom pressed the tissue slightly harder against his sore nose and attempted to glower fiercely at the matron's retreating form, but only succeeded in looking awkwardly adorable.

Martha's lips twitched as she observed him, but she continued to gently press a faintly moist cloth against the book's cover – trying to get the blood out – without commenting on how far from frightening the boy actually looked.

Tom glared at her anyway. He didn't really feeling like doing anything other than glaring, because Mrs. Cole was unfair and Stubbs was mean and _his nose hurt_.

The doctor seemed to sense this, for she suddenly remarked that, "She does not realise that she is blaming you – she thinks she is being just."

Tom, surprised by the doctor's comment, blurted out, "Are you sure you're not psychic?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow, amused. "Quite," she replied.

Tom was briefly amused by the discussion, but was soon struck by another thought which made him frown. "She never allows people to go unpunished for hitting," he pointed out. "Why is she letting _Mister Rabbit_ walk free?"

Doctor Elder could not quite prevent herself from snorting in amusement at Tom's terminology, but her answer was quite serious. "Most new arrivals are not violent on their first day, nor do they usually insist on being allowed to attend classes immediately." The doctor paused, then extrapolated cautiously, "She will have words with him, although it may do little good. However, she is trying to be …sympathetic," here the doctor's tone made her distaste for the concept quite clear, "and believes that you should_ also_ be sympathetic to his loss."

"Why?" Tom demanded, irritated. "How am I supposed to feel sorry for someone losing parents when I've only ever had one and I _can't get rid of her?_"

Martha tossed the slightly bloody, moist cloth into the nearby sink – a well practised move on her part – and pressed a dry cloth to the book. "I believe," she stated, "that you are supposed to use your imagination." Something in the tone seemed to suggest that Martha herself had no idea how to go about such a thing.

There was a knock on the infirmary door and a moment later it opened.

"A knock is a request to enter, not an announcement that one is entering," the doctor stated blandly.

The boy in the doorway appeared to be startled. However, his eyes had widened when he had spotted Tom rather than when he had registered what the doctor had said.

The doctor, meanwhile, had crossed to her filing cabinet and removed a very thin folder. This she dropped on her desk and flipped open.

"Stubbs, William Thomas," she stated, examining the file. "When I examined you before lunch you were perfectly healthy, although inclined to snivel. Am I to take it that some terrible illness has befallen you in the last few hours?"

Stubbs blinked. "My hand is sore," he said, lifting his right hand slightly as he did.

Doctor Elder waved him into the room. "Define sore," she said.

"My knuckles hurt and they're all red," Stubbs replied, walking over to show the doctor.

Tom glared at the newcomer from over the slowly reddening tissue.

The doctor reached out and began to turn the hand in question, carefully examining it. Her professional demeanour faltered slightly in the form of pressing her lips together with some repressed emotion before she spoke. "You appear to have punched something," she said.

Stubbs' eyes flickered between Tom and the doctor. "I was just defending myself," he exclaimed.

"You have no other injuries?" the doctor inquired.

Stubbs shook his head.

Doctor Elder looked down sternly at him and in a very cold tone she stated, rather than asked, "You expect me to believe that you acted to protect yourself when he is battered and you have not a scratch upon you?" There was a clear note of incredulity in her tone.

"It was just one punch," Stubbs muttered, flashing an almost guilty look in Tom's direction.

"You nearly _broke his nose_," the doctor stated.

That time Stubbs definitely flinched. Nevertheless, it was confidence – or, perhaps false bravado – that Stubbs turned toward Tom and harshly asked, "Do you want me to apologise?"

"I want you to STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Tom snarled.

Before the situation could escalate any further, Doctor Elder exerted a small amount of pressure on Stubbs' muscular wrist; which she was still holding.

Stubbs looked up at her, apparently rather startled.

"Go to the kitchen and ask Mister Hughes for something cold and a towel to wrap it in, or a cold damp towel," the doctor said. "Do _no__**t**_ return to my infirmary again unless you are actually injured and honest about it."

Stubbs flushed slightly, nodded and rushed out of the room as soon as the doctor had released his wrist.

Tom watched him leave with a serious, and somewhat dark, expression on his face. "I hope he _never_ is ill," he said after the door swung shut.

Martha glanced sideways at him and arched an eyebrow elegantly.

"That way he never comes in here," Tom said. "This is _my_ sanctuary and I don't want him in it."

Martha tilted her head ever so slightly and idly handed the book to her patient.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Dhelana Joie:** I'm very sorry to have to say that I can and will be leaving you without the full representation of his school years. If I'm going to make it as a professional novelist then I actually have to start by getting something written and even writing Tom on the side is too distracting (that and my muses tend to shape themselves as the main character, so every time I try to get on with original fiction I first have to deal with seeing Tom trying to put Meredith in a headlock). However I will, as previously promised, put up all the notes for the rest of the series so you will, at least, know what 'happened next'. I'm really pleased to know you've been enjoying it so much.

**To I Have Secrets I Won't Share:** Thank you very much, I'm glad to know you like my take on Tom. And you're quite welcome.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** I'm glad you find the dynamic interesting – and the sandwich moment adorable. *shrugs* I work on the theory that all affection, natural healthy affection, is inherently selfish, but since you give in order to get…


	52. Cause : December 31st, 1936

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Two: Cause…**

It always takes time, unless the change is abrupt and dramatic, for changes in behaviour to be noticed. Similarly, it is possible – with enough effort and outrageous behaviour – to irritate someone very quickly, but for truly and deeply irritating someone (with long term effects and minimal repercussions to oneself) a great deal of time is needed.

Tom was perfectly aware of this. He was also aware of the rumours that circulated about him, and was therefore content to do absolutely nothing whatsoever to Billy Stubbs and let the rumours about revenge do his work for him. After all, there was no point wasting time doing little things to irritate and frighten Stubbs when simply smiling and saying hello was enough to make him paranoid and jumpy. It was actually quite amusing – not only did it require minimum effort; it also drove Stubbs crazy because Tom wasn't doing anything wrong …and even Mrs. Cole, who could always find something wrong with Tom, could not fault him for smiling at people. On the contrary: she had always hoped that he would start making more normal friendships and so was forced to call Tom's apparent forgiveness and attitude change an improvement. Both Martha and Simon, on the other hand, would give Tom 'I know what you are doing' looks every time they spotted him being perfectly pleasant to Stubbs.

Sometimes, when he went as far as to politely ask him something, Tom could practically see a vein in Stubbs' forehead throbbing. Of course, Tom wasn't stupid enough to get within grabbing difference in order to check for certain.

By the time October had come, Stubbs was clearly nervous.

By November Stubbs was jumpy.

By December Stubbs had been regularly spotted throwing doors open and dodging as if he expected an attacker to be standing behind them and counting his possessions each morning and night.

By the end of December, when he woke up on his birthday, Tom was ready to congratulate himself on a job well done. This he did by carefully shifting the sleeping Amy, climbing as quietly as possible through his wardrobe and sneaking across to the doctor's bedroom.

The cry of surprise that followed was particularly pleasant.

Martha Elder, once over the shock of being pounced on, reached out and looked at her clock – which was illuminated by the light of the just waning, setting, moon. Then she groaned (a rare occurrence for the normally composed woman).

"Good morning!" Tom chirped brightly.

"It's four in the morning, Tom," the doctor replied. "It's still dark out."

"It's my birthday!" Tom replied cheerfully.

"Happy birthday," Martha stated dryly. "Go make me some tea."

Tom pouted at her, in a playful manner. Then, more seriously, he said, "I'm not allowed to use the kettle yet – I'm too little."

Doctor Elder sat up in her bed, fixing the boy with a tired look which made it perfectly clear she did not expect him to use the _kettle_.

Tom grinned, bounced back off the bed and rushed to sneak downstairs and make the 'waking up' drink. He suspected that when he was older he would be able to do such things without having to be in the same room – if he kept practising – and thought it highly likely that the doctor was merely requesting tea so that she would have the chance to get up and get dressed without him chattering in her ear.

As the boy – newly ten years old – made his way with cat-like silence down the stairs, he decided that he'd make a cup for Amy as well …warm milk, though, since he doubted the doctor would think her old enough for tea. This thought was the one which led to his spending the rest of the journey downstairs in deep thought: pondering why children considered too young to _drink_ tea were always allowed to have as many _tea parties_ as they wanted. That was probably why he failed to notice the ghost following him toward the kitchen.

* * *

Merope watched anxiously as her son mumbled strange muggle terms of science to himself whilst pouring two cups of cold water, with tea bags, and one cup of cold milk. He appeared to be debating whether it would be wiser to heat the liquids – and which scientific method was the best with which to do so – before carrying them (or floating them) upstairs or after doing so.

He also, from what Merope could make out, seemed to be of the opinion that the doctor was testing how much control he had over his abilities. It was strange how her son seemed to flourish when presented with a challenge – and for that reason, above all others, Merope was terrified of how he might react when she conveyed to him what she had overheard.

"Are you here to wish me a happy birthday?" Tom asked her, startling the ghost – for she had not realised that she had been spotted.

Merope shook her head, unintentionally causing a few silver droplets of blood from her throat to slide down far more widely than they normally would have done.

Tom wrinkled his nose delicately.

Merope reached out, still struggling to find the easiest – and clearest – way to express herself. She knew, all too well, that her son did not want her around (and it hurt terribly to think of the cold-hearted doctor filling her role) but she did not wish him harm …in fact, that was what she was desperate to avoid.

"I'm going to assume that means there is something terribly wrong," Tom stated conversationally. "Also: you are making the tea go cold again."

Merope gave him a look of exasperated fondness which, unfortunately, merely served to make her face look malformed. She extended her arm to the most wand-like item she could find (which, as it so happened, was a teaspoon) and did her best to portray picking it up and waving it.

"No thank you," Tom told her. "I've had quiet enough of Rosie's tea parties."

Merope's shoulders sagged.

Tom carefully balanced the three steaming teacups and manoeuvred carefully around the chairs and back out of the door, leaving next to no trace that he had ever been in the kitchen – and one increasingly frantic dead woman – behind him.

After a few, nearly hysterical, moments, Merope suddenly rushed out of the room and hurried to Tom's bedroom – she could not make her son understand, when his attention was so focused on other things, but she had observed him from afar long enough to know that she _might _be able to make his little blonde friend understand …and that was how Amy Benson woke on the thirty-first of December, 1936, to the sight of a dead woman with a slit, bleeding, throat staring down at her.

Somewhat understandably, Amy managed to squeak slightly and dove back under Tom's covers. The cold which emanated from the deceased woman, however, was beginning to seep through the blankets and (as Amy peered out from beneath them in silent terror) it suddenly occurred to her that she did actually recognise the person who had woken her. Amy very much wanted Tom's company in that moment, because Tom was older and smarter and would protect her, but she also suspected that the ghost would not be bothering her if he was around.

Once Merope was certain she had the little girl's attention – although this was rather with a bit of regret as she had not meant to inspire such terror in her son's only friend – she moved over to Tom's bedside cabinet and gestured, as firmly as she was able, that the girl ought to open it.

Amy narrowed her eyes. "That's Tom's," the seven year old girl stated tartly. "It's not right to look around other people's things."

Merope gestured again, this time with a pleading expression and desperation clear in her movements.

Hesitantly, Amy crawled out of bed – unable to help worrying that maybe Tom's mother finally _had_ gone mad and Tom was missing because Tom was _dead_ – and stood firmly as she could between the dead woman and her surrogate brother's things. "I said no," she told the ghost, loyally, and crossed her arms as if to emphasise the point.

What followed appeared to be a dramatic – silent – demonstration of either someone being attacked physically and defending themselves with a baton or someone suffering from heart problems trying to reach and wave down a hansom cab. Merope followed this rather peculiar demonstration by pointing, once again, at the closed cabinet which she could not open.

Amy, in a moment of surprising level-headedness and maturity, nodded in an almost parentally disbelieving fashion and climbed through the wardrobe to find Tom (who, she was suddenly certain, must have gone to find the doctor).

Sure enough, when she came out the other side Amy discovered the doctor – freshly up and dressed – sitting at her desk while Tom carefully placed three steaming cups on the table.

"Good morning!" the ten year old boy greeted her, with far too much cheer for the ridiculous hour.

Amy crossed her arms, folding them once more in a movement learned from watching far too many adults as they listen to particularly unbelievable explanations about why something had been broken by one child or another (who, in turn, was usually trying to shift the blame).

Tom's face actually fell.

"You Mum thinks you're going to be attacked," Amy told him, annoyed. "Apparently, you can defend yourself if you have a baton in your bedside cabinet."

Martha paused in raising her cup of tea – rather amused by the fact that Tom deemed himself old enough to have tea as well – and gave Amy a considering look: it was clear that merely being around Tom so long had greatly improved the girl's vocabulary.

"A …baton…" Tom repeated slowly. "As in a …stick."

Merope, who had followed Amy through to the infirmary, nodded frantically.

Tom and Amy both wrinkled their noses at the sight.

Martha took one glance at their expressions, their line of sight and the ice that was forming on the nearby window, and tilted her head in greeting. "Madam Riddle," she said in her dry, ironical tone, "how kind of you to grace us with your presence."

"What's could be so terribly important about a stick?" Tom asked, with disbelief clear in his tone.

Merope's brow creased as she desperately tried to find a way to explain herself.

"I cannot pretend to believe that a piece of old wood with a strand of equine hair in it," the doctor began, although she paused momentarily to give an aside comment when Tom graced her with a peculiar look, "I took a small sample from the end and analysed it," and then continued with her original statement, "could be particularly special or useful."

Although she could not see Merope's pained expression, Martha did put the teacup down and fixed Merope's general direction with a serious gaze. "Ignoring, for the moment," Doctor Elder stated, "the complete and utter lack of scientific evidence to support the idea that the stick is anything more than a stick, it would be most prudent of you to explain – if you can – _why_ it is suddenly of such paramount importance that Tom have the stick and – perhaps more importantly – _who _you believe he is in danger from."

Merope waved an arm about again, attempting to give the two children the impression of using her old wand to make things levitate.

Tom sighed, sounding far older than he was, and said quite firmly, albeit irritably, "No, _mother,_ I'm the one who does that – the stick is_n't_ what makes strange things happen."

Martha winced ever so slightly at the brief glimpse of what Tom might yet be like when he became a young man. Brat, it seemed, was to be a term which would last him all the way into adulthood.

"Was it Stubby and Sammy?" Amy asked, suddenly, looking up reluctantly at the ghost and with her brow creasing in deep thought.

Tom whirled around to stare at her, frowning.

Amy shrugged at him and tugged on one of her long blonde locks. "It's been months," she explained, "maybe they finally realised that you aren't _really_ going to putrefaction them."

"You cannot 'putrefaction' someone," Martha corrected mildly.

Amy shrugged.

Tom, however, had fixed the dead woman with a considering gaze as the woman pointed to Amy and nodded once more.

"Your stick makes sparkles," he stated, coolly, "so at best it will make people think the stick is responsible for what I do rather than me."

Merope's shoulders sank.

"_However_," Tom continued cautiously, "I may be convinced to carry the stick around with me… if you stop watching me from the distance and go back to taking care of Rosie: she's the one who needs a mummy."

There was a look of anguish on Merope's face but, in the end, she nodded.

* * *

Normally whenever a child had a birthday the matron would make special mention at breakfast, as it was quite impossible to afford a present for every child (especially when merely feeding and clothing everyone was difficult enough), but normal had never been a word associated with Tom Riddle.

"Excuse me," Tom cut in, before Mrs. Cole could get beyond mentioning his name.

The matron turned to stare at him in shock.

Tom, however, took that as a chance to keep talking and climbed up onto his seat so that everyone could see him. "Thank you," he continued. "I know it is normal just to ask everyone to wish the aging child joy for their special day, but I felt it was more appropriate to say a few words of my own rather than ask everyone to give me well wishes which they do not mean in the slightest – on account of the fact that none of you actually like me."

There was quite a bit of uncomfortable shifting amongst his unwilling audience at that statement. The matron gave him a pained look.

Tom spread his arms as he began to address his audience once more. "Did you know that there are currently no less than _seven_ boys named Tom in this orphanage?" Tom Riddle inquired rhetorically. "There are six Janes, six Jameses and _nine_ Edwards – with statistics such as that, it is quite impossible to simply expect that saying 'Tom' has a birthday is actually going to identify anyone: and there can be no real point in wishing someone a happy birthday if you do not know whom you are talking about."

Mrs. Cole opened her mouth, with the intention of thanking Tom for his …insight… and regaining control over the situation. Unfortunately for her, Tom had not finished – he had merely paused to take a breath.

"I think not," Tom continued sharply. "For, surely, that would be assuming that we – as humans – are incapable of kindness towards those one does not know. Is kindness, then, an inherent trait of human nature or a construct of society created with the sole purpose of making others feel indebted to them so as to get some return?"

Harold Cole, who was long since going deaf but not quite deaf enough to be unaware of Tom's speech, hid his face behind his newspaper and muttered something which sounded distinctly like "It's too early for this".

Earnestly, it seemed, Tom looked out over his audience from his podium-seat and asked, "Do we only do nice things for strangers because it makes us warm and squishy?"

Martha, the only person at the staff table who was not still trying to wake up, snorted inelegantly.

"Are we saying happy birthday because we honestly wish the person happiness," Tom pressed on – now accompanying his speech with gestures, "or because we are obligated to and want others to honour their obligation when it comes time for the illusion of well-wishing to be aimed at you?"

"I thought I served porridge for breakfast this morning, not dictionaries," Simon murmured to Henry Cole.

Tom took a very brief moment to glare at him for the impoliteness of speaking during someone's speech. Unfortunately, he started up again before anyone could take advantage of this. Tom furrowed his brow in thought and, almost as if baffled, inanely remarked, "Everyone looks really short from up here."

"I started to think we need to move him up a class again," Jonathan Stone murmured to the matron, leaning carefully past Mary as he did, "and then he says something like that."

Mary smiled fondly at him.

Tom shook his head, unaware of the almost disbelieving expressions on the faces of several staff members, and went back to his speech. "If we were such selfish creatures, what would be the point of forgiveness?" Tom inquired of his audience. "There would not be one – because while it does open the opportunity for people who've done wrong by you to give you things later if you become friendlier there is no definite that they _will _change according to forgiveness."

"What are you thinking?" Mary whispered to the doctor, upon catching sight of the curious expression the other woman wore.

"I'm thinking…" Doctor Elder replied in her dry, ironical tone, "Prime Minster Riddle."

"It would be like forgiving someone for taking your toy and then being surprised when they don't give it back!" Tom exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. "It would be silly! So why do we do it?"

There was shifting in his unwilling audience.

"Evidently," Tom declared, "it is a sign of our higher natures and enlightenment! We forgive not because it is beneficial but because it is right! Forgiveness: the great sign of the goodness within us and height of our intellect! Forgiveness: that which makes the best of us better than they were."

Mrs. Cole narrowed her eyes. The sentiment, no matter how happy it was making Mary, was decidedly un-Tom-like …and there was only one reason that he would start endorsing ideas which went so decidedly against his own attitude.

"TOM, WHAT DID YOU _DO_?" the matron exclaimed, effectively cutting off his speech.

Tom spun around to stare at her, wobbling slightly as he did, and – with wide eyes and arms spread – cried, "I didn't do anything!"

Mrs. Cole gave him an exasperated look and snapped, "Sit down!"

Tom huffed, but complied.

Amy patted him gently on the arm once he was seated.

Several of the children who were forced to sit nearby, however, unsubtly shifted as far away from him as possible.

Sam Chase, who was sitting one table over, nudged Billy Stubbs and nodded at Tom. Stubbs snickered.

Tom glared at his porridge and muttered, "I'm doomed."

"At least you've got your stick," Amy offered, sympathetically.

Tom stared at his porridge pitifully.

* * *

In all honesty, Tom felt rather stupid as he slipped along the shadowy wall of the corridor with a masking-tape covered old stick in his pocket but he did it anyway for he had learned the hard way that adults (even dead ones) rarely kept their end of bargains until they were sure the child was keeping theirs. Although, if he was all-out _completely_ honest with himself, he would have to admit that a small part of him _was_ glad to have the stick – both because it was further evidence that he was not imagining his deceased parent and because, well, it was the only thing he actually had of his mother's (apart from a disgusting and annoying spirit). It was something to fulfil the childish need to hold something – a need which he had rarely felt in his life. Generally speaking, however, that part of himself he kept securely locked down in his mind, surrounded by man-eating piranha-shark-frogs inside a dungeon with a moat and huge metal fence so that it couldn't cause trouble (trouble like getting attached to things which could be taken away from him by other children; which was stupid, stupid, _stupid_ and to be avoided at all costs).

Technically speaking, as the New Year's party was in full swing, Tom did not need to sneak down the corridor to get himself a drink (he'd already had his watered down Coca-cola quite some time ago and was hoping for something a little less …bubbly) but with the looks Stubbs and Sammy had been exchanging ever since Tom's speech he didn't want to take risks. Moreover, since it had taken Tom a whole ten minutes of arguing with the matron to convince her that he had_n't_ been endorsing forgiveness because he was trying to get out of trouble, so Tom really didn't want to give her any reason to presume he had been telling lies.

"Stop being childish!" a sharp, male voice snapped from just inside the kitchen.

Tom froze mid-step and leaned against the wall to listen in.

"I am not being childish," a second man – whom, after a moment, Tom identified as Simon Hughes – replied.

"You are both being childish," a third man – almost certainly Henry Cole – exclaimed.

Tom briefly wondered why it was that the one time all the adults ought to have been inside the staff room he had stumbled across three of them hiding out in the kitchen.

"Jonathan," Henry continued sternly, "it _was_ rather inconsiderate of you to ask in the middle of the party. Simon: you had over ten years to express yourself, you cannot blame Jonathan for finally moving on after that long – especially, since, if you care to remember, Mary said _yes_ to Jonathan. Perhaps she was also tired of waiting for you to declare your affections. You have been close friends for years, you should be able to deal with this matter like the adults you are."

"Exactly!" Tom thoughtlessly declared from outside the kitchen. "You shouldn't be setting such a bad example for the children! We might get ideas!"

There was an ominous silence from inside the kitchen and then Tom realised that – once again – his mouth had run away with him and the silly comment had actually been spoken aloud.

"Oh, bugger," Tom concluded, then launched himself off the wall and made a mad dash for the corridor and eventual safety of his room.

It was for this reason that he failed to notice the clawing hand that shot out of the shadows by the corridor-side of the dining room door and narrowly missed his arm as he passed.

It was also for this reason that Tom was too distracted to hear the soft, young male voice in the shadows say, "Next time, mate."

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Shebali:** I'm afraid you're going to have to wait a little longer for that – since I checked canon very carefully and nothing in it says the rabbit incident occurred after Tom's first or only fight with Billy Stubbs. Thank you very much for the luck, I shall keep it in my luck jar.

**To Nerdman3000:** Well I'm unfortunately not going to be able to actually write his Hogwarts years – I need to get on with making a living – but I'm very pleased you've enjoyed his youth so far and hope that you will like the notes for his Hogwarts years that I will put up when this story is done.

**To ThisIsTrueImmortality:** I'm thinking shadowy discretion shot rather than pretty. *holds up hands* Okay, I'm kidding, I know that's not quite what you meant. As I said to Shebali, it's going to take a little while longer before we actually get to that, but I sincerely hope you like the way I have it happen when it does.


	53. Effect: January 1st, 1937

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** I was in a rush to post the last chapter, so I forgot to mention two thinks. Firstly; I have disabled anon commenting because it was being abused by a troll and I will not re-enable it in case said troll decides to come back. Secondly; I changed the title slightly – removing the series heading – because I will no longer be making this into a series and the abbreviation was therefore confusing and unnecessary.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Three: …Effect**

As it happened, Tom had the chance to learn more about the Mystery of the Discussion He Had Interrupted (which needed a better name) the next morning. Henry Cole had caught him up and about at a ridiculously early hour – a habit which Tom, and Amy, had unintentionally picked up from Martha, who was notorious in the orphanage for going to bed well after midnight and yet getting up at five in the morning without fail – and set him to kitchen duty. Evidently, Mr. Cole could _also_ recognise voices through walls.

Tom had entered a plea of temporary brain failure, but the matron's husband had clearly been a corrupt judge and sentenced Tom to menial labour. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Cole had not been particularly impressed by this conclusion.

On the other hand, if Tom hadn't been forced to help set the tables in the dining hall that morning – and therefore been making multiple journeys in and out of the kitchen – he would not have heard Simon Hughes discussing the matter with one of the older children. It seemed strange to Tom that Mr. Hughes would discuss such a matter with one of the orphans – but Margaret, if Tom had heard her name right, was clearly one of the eldest orphans and Tom could vaguely recall something about her being Mr. Hughes' unofficial apprentice cook.

"Shouldn't you be happy for her?" Margaret asked Simon as she put another stack of plates in Tom's arms.

Tom was fairly certain the adults – or almost adults, in one case –weren't really paying him that much attention, because within moments of his beginning to move away (when he was obviously still within hearing distance) Simon exclaimed, "I_ am_ happy for her!"

Tom, who had retreated to the edge of the room where he could remain unnoticed, watched as a container of oats shook when Simon slammed his hand down on the counter a bit too close to it.

The man, whom had always reminded Tom of a big puppy or a clown without a painted face, seemed almost heartbroken. Tom wasn't sure about that, though, because he didn't really have the slightest idea what heartbroken would look like.

Margaret gave him a sad – and sadly mature – smile and handed him the long stirring spoon. "You would just prefer she was happy with you, yes?" she asked.

"I would just prefer it hadn't been so sudden," Simon replied, stirring the oats in the pot with alarming ferocity. "I knew they were close and I knew I never quite managed to act, but I would have thought I would notice _before_ she agreed to become Mrs. Jonathan Stone!"

Margaret reached out to carefully still his hand, so that he wouldn't start knocking precious food onto the floor.

Simon sighed and passed the spoon back to her. "Perhaps I should just leave," he suggested. "I am clearly making them uncomfortable and…"

"You wouldn't have to be reminded of the situation?" Margaret offered, in a tone that suggested the man was being foolish.

"You won't leave," Tom said.

Simon and Margaret turned, slowly and almost coldly, to face him – and both wore dark expressions.

Tom shrugged as carefully as he could, mindful of the stack of plates he was holding, and elucidated, "There are no jobs. You don't have anywhere to go." Then he backed away toward, and out of, the door with a far more childish exclamation of "I'm going! I'm going!"

Once outside the kitchen and the disapproving gaze of the pair of cooks, Tom relaxed and smiled to himself, content in the knowledge that he had solved the mystery – it was adult romance problems.

Suddenly his face fell and he exclaimed to himself, "How boring!"

* * *

After breakfast Tom found Mr. Stone with relative ease. It wasn't that he particularly cared about adult problems, because he didn't, but in a small way he had been involved in the earlier half of this drama and he knew from experience that adults could sometimes be stupid. Tom, on the other hand, was not stupid – and he was carrying the evidence of that in his pocket, as he had stopped off in his room for it first.

Jonathan Stone, as usual when he was upset, could be found in the attic school room. He was sitting behind his desk, twirling a pencil between his fingers and looking utterly dejected.

Tom, without the slightest bit of hesitation, walked into the room, climbed up onto the desk to sit 'next to' the teacher, pulled the small box out of his pocket and placed it on the desk – flipping it open as he did.

Mr. Stone jerked in surprise when he recognised the ring.

"I thought you might want this back," Tom said simply.

The teacher turned to him, gazing in wide-eyed, silent amazement.

Tom shrugged. "I'm not stupid," he said. "When Mary gave it to me she said it was my mother's – but it is engraved _Jonathan and Lucy _and I was named _Tom_ after my father." After a moment he shrugged again and added, "Can't be mine, see? The name's wrong."

Jonathan reached out and, gently and hesitantly, ran a finger along the side of the little red box. His expression was not so much clouded by as it was clear with old sorrows.

"Tom," the teacher said finally, his voice thick with pain, "this was expensive."

"I know," Tom replied lightly, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

"You should keep this," Mr. Stone said, still clearly shocked.

Tom smiled at him as if he was a stupid, but sweet natured, child and Tom were the adult. Then, to Jonathan Stone's complete and utter amazement, Tom reached over and patted him on the head as if he were some sort of little lost puppy, jumped back off the desk and left the room.

The old engagement ring glittered slightly in its old, slightly faded, red box – almost as if it was still just as shiny as when Jonathan had bought it, some ten years ago.

* * *

One could, perhaps, argue that it wouldn't have happened if Tom hadn't finished his dinner early that night, but that would be a fallacious assumption. It almost certainly would have happened eventually, given the attitude of the instigators, it simply would not have happened at that moment and might have happened less successfully.

As it happens, however, the point is moot for Tom ate somewhat too quickly during dinner, suffered an unfortunate case of the hiccups and was advised by the doctor to take a walk or sit somewhere warm – all of which resulted in his leaving the meal before everyone else was done and sitting by himself in the drawing room, hoping to end his minor affliction by focusing his effort and energy on the newest test of his abilities the doctor had come up with.

He sat silently – the hiccups finally having subsided – in a chair facing the fire, where he had placed the masking-tape covered stick and from where he was attempting to create a vacuum through which the outside pressure would push (not suck) the item in question toward him. It was extremely difficult, especially as the changing air currents near the fire meant he constantly had to compensate to make the vacuum exist.

He didn't notice he had company until Billy picked up the stick.

"Hello, Freak," Stubbs said coldly, holding the stick curiously. He sneered at Tom when he saw the younger boy's eyes widen. "You must you're terribly clever."

Tom swallowed and hesitantly rose from the chair. "You punched me and I didn't retaliate," he said cautiously, all too aware that the situation was not a good one. "Please give me back my stick."

Billy Stubbs tilted his sturdy head and glanced down at the old, dry stick with its pealing cover of masking-tape around the middle. "Sam says this thing was your mothers," he said lightly.

Tom swallowed again, feeling somewhat ill. "Sammy says a lot of things he shouldn't," he replied, as he watched the heirloom with his eyes wide and his cheeks becoming pale.

Then Tom noted the openly malicious gleam in Stubbs' eyes and realised that bravery – no matter how many epic tales were told of it – was the most _foolish_ response possible in the situation. "I'll scream," he said, managing to swallow his preference for self-sufficiency in favour of the more sensible self-preservation.

Stubbs smiled darkly. "No you won't," he said, dismissively and – to Tom's alarm – amusedly.

Before Tom had a chance to react, he was forced to the ground with a somewhat muffled thud. The person sitting on him had forced his arms behind his back and was holding them in one hand, while they used their other – still dirty from dinner – to cover his mouth tightly.

The person, pleased to have secured their victim, chuckled. Tom instantly recognised the chuckle as Sammy's and mentally berated himself for not realising that if Stubbs went somewhere Sam was bound to follow.

Tom now truly felt nauseous.

Sam momentarily used his knees to secure Tom's arms so that he could wrench Tom head up to look at Stubbs and in that moment, watching the pleasure on the brute's face, it occurred to Tom just how unpleasant his situation would become. He had thought, mistakenly it appeared, that if he left the meal early and everyone knew it they would not dare leave early to attack – he had thought that he could wait in a public place which would soon be filled and that he would be safe in public. He had been wrong.

Tom swallowed somewhat desperately as he momentarily felt something – or rather a lot of small, hard somethings and what was probably a trace amount of stomach acid – start to move up his throat and fall away again. He was completely unaware that his eyes had begun to water from the pain of having his head jerked so roughly around by the hair, several strands of which had come loose as he was pulled.

The youngest boy watched Stubbs without truly seeing and listened without truly hearing, for terror and thought were making focus difficult. The edges of the room had fallen away from his vision in the fear: the area with Stubbs and the fire was all he could see, the weight of Sam on his back was all he could feel.

In spite of his panic Tom reasoned that using the nerve-shaking trick would cause him more damage than good in the long term, presuming he survived whatever they were planning, because they – unlike Mary – would not be convinced to keep their mouths shut ...even if they promised the rumours would begin to spread and Martha could only do so much damage control. Rational thought, Tom decided faintly, was good: it was keeping him from concentrating on the pain and the fear. He would have to call for help, he concluded, and that would mean removing the disgusting hand from his mouth – without hands, he thought dazedly, he would have to …lick or bite or do something disgusting in order to make Sam jerk away for a moment, _just_ for a moment.

Samuel Chase ground his knees into the back of the boy whom had once been his friend. "You should pay attention, Freak," Sam hissed, lowering his head a bit to reach Tom's ear with greater ease. "You should be_ glad_ the _normal_ people are paying you attention."

Tom's stomach churned with disgust, terror and fury.

"You think you're terribly clever, but I figured you out. You're not actually going to do anything – just let me make a fool of myself! You're just a milksop!" Stubbs spat viciously – and, if Tom was right, bitterly – as he waved the stick in front of the fire. "You're just as _stupid _and _useless_ as your _mother's stupid __**stick!**_" he declared and, without hesitation, threw the stick into the fire.

Tom thought, faintly, that he heard someone cry out – perhaps Sam at having teeth in the soft flesh of his hand, perhaps Tom himself a moment later when his mouth was free; Tom couldn't tell – and as the horrible pressure on his hands lifted he was vaguely aware that one of his hands shot out in a desperate, futile, effort to reach the stick in the back of the fire …which caught alight even as he reached out toward it.

Unnoticed by his laughing attackers, a small white hair shot out of the flames (only lightly singed at one end) and was pushed through a vacuum into Tom's clawing, outstretched, hand – where it curled into a neat coil as his hand closed around it unconsciously and he went limp in defeat.

Sam made the effort to shove Tom into the carpet one last time, this time with his full weight again, and when Tom groaned in pain, Sam stood up.

The fire burned with new life and a slight unusual odour as it finished consuming the masking-tape and the pair of attackers left the room laughing to themselves.

Finally overcome by his nausea, Tom vomited – choking from the acidic burn in his throat as he did – and slumped practically in his regurgitated meal as the last of the old, dry stick crumbled amid the flames. He didn't even notice as hot tears cut through the partially digested food on his face.

In the distance, beyond the choked sobs, he thought he heard the sound of someone – the matron, maybe – approaching and calling out for a doctor. He vaguely wondered who was hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

* * *

He hadn't bruised so far. That, Tom thought, was the worst thing about it: he hadn't bruised and neither attacker could be proven to have been in the room with him, so Mrs. Cole wasn't going to punish them. After all, they _swore_ they hadn't been in the drawing room and there was no proof Tom hadn't merely _lost_ his stick and she was more willing to believe the two of them than _him_.

Tom hated the matron. They had taken something from him – taken it and destroyed it – and he could never get it back, never get another, but she wasn't going to do _anything _because she had 'no proof'. Tom's word alone wasn't_ good enough_ for her.

"I am going to get back at him for this," Tom swore darkly as he stared up at the infirmary ceiling. Any further declarations, however, were forced to wait as he rolled over so that he was leaning out over his bucket and waited for the feeling that he was about to vomit to pass.

"Good," Amy said firmly from the other side of the infirmary – where the doctor had set her up with a candle to light with her abilities; something they knew Tom could do but with which Amy still struggled.

"Why?" Doctor Elder, who was seated behind her desk, inquired blandly.

"Because what he did was wrong!" Tom snapped miserably.

"I am not disagreeing with that point," Martha stated calmly. "I am asking why your response is to take revenge."

Tom frowned. "He deserves it," the boy stated.

"Why?" the doctor asked again, toneless as ever.

"He deserves to be punished," Tom replied coldly. "They both do – because what they did was wrong."

"Why revenge?" Doctor Elder asked again. "Why not leave justice to authority?"

Tom's face darkened with anguish and he cried, "Because _**she's **__no__**t **__doing anything about it!_ She's not _going_ to punish them! She'll _let them_ think it's acceptable!"

"If they think they won't get punished they'll keep going," Amy added helpfully from her end of the room, "like Peggy Sawyer's daddy." Then, on a less related note, Amy stated, "That's why she likes to hide in the kitchen."

Tom nodded, long used to Amy's random tangents. "Exactly," he said earnestly, "it is both justice and protection."

"So you would argue that revenge is acceptable when society fails to dispense justice when and where it is truly deserved?" Doctor Elder inquired calmly, arching one eyebrow slightly as she did.

"Yes!" Tom hissed.

"Respectfully," the doctor said, still unruffled and bland in tone, "I disagree."

Tom blinked and pulled back, surprised.

"It is my opinion that revenge can lead easily to cycles of further revenge and that much of it is taken thoughtlessly; without proper consideration for whether or not it was truly just," Martha stated. "_However_, I am also aware that _**if **__there was_ an ethical code or stance which was _**t**__ruly_ correct in _all_ circumstances everyone would recognise it as so: thus there would no_t_ _**be**_ such philosophical debates and conflicting moral codes. There are: therefore no one has the correct answer yet."

Tom watched her in surprise as she paused, waiting for a moment so that everything she had said could truly register with him.

"I do not agree with your opinion, but as it clear that you have _**t**__hough__**t**_about the whys of it: I_ respec__**t**_your opinion," she continued, with gravity and seriousness somehow making themselves unmistakable in her calm and mild tone. "Moreover, as my colleague has deemed it …acceptable to ignore a serious assault, past precedent deems it acceptable that I should do the same if some …unfortunate situation were to occur."

Tom's eyes widened.

"Although," Doctor Elder added almost sternly, "I should hope that anyone willing to take advantage of that would be wise enough to wait until they were no longer likely to be suspect."

Tom stared at the doctor's expressionless face for a moment and then, somewhat dazed, he grinned.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Anla'shok:** I'm glad his smart-mouth amused you. …I have to admit I'm kind of amazed, though, because you mentioned psych students discussing this when eighteen or nineteen. I mean, I always knew I was faster with that sort of thing than most people I'd met – the very reason I used my own learning history as a guide to keeping Tom's intellect realistic – but that statement kind of startled me. Your statement just sort of made it clearer to me why some readers have had a bit of trouble believing Tom's behaviour and speech, I mean I knew it was unusual but not that unusual. *shakes head* But I digress, I'm really pleased to know you liked the 'from up here' line and that the piranha-shark-frogs were adequate.

As you can no doubt guess from this chapter it's not so much a case of no longer helping him learn as it is one of it being mostly unimportant to the plot and a standard fact of life for a while so it went by without mention (he had to get those adult concepts from somewhere, after all).

I did try to make Merope both tragic and horrific, so I cannot begin to express how glad I am that you find her tragic. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

**To Dhelana Joie:** It's good to hear that you find it interesting. I'm actually pushing myself to get these last few chapters out as quickly as possible, because the first four chapters of CoS are available on Pottermore (and as a Snake I and my house got them a bit earlier than the others as a prize for winning the house cup, so the pressure was a bit extra) and I want to get it – and the series notes – up before it opens much further and anything I've written becomes uncanonical. I think you'll get to have your little jig a lot more often for a brief space of time.


	54. The Rabbit in the Rafters: Mar 20&21 '37

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Four: The Rabbit in the Rafters**

Tom was an alarmingly patient person when he wanted to be. He waited all the way until March to put his carefully planned – and never written down or spoken of in public – plan into action. By the twentieth of the month he was ready.

Unfortunately, on that particular day the plan hit an unexpected snag in the form of Billy Stubbs himself.

As Stubbs crossed the courtyard to approach him on that Saturday morning, not long before lunch, Tom watched warily over the top of his book and had reached two conclusions before Stubbs had even reached him or opened his mouth. Tom's first conclusion was that he could not put his plan into action if Stubbs picked a fight with him the day before, although any unfortunate circumstances might be less blamed on him if he publicly gave as good as he got – he still could not risk being caught. Tom's second conclusion was that he was about to be involved in his first ever proper, unpleasantly physical, brawl.

To Tom's surprise, he found himself beginning to smirk as the large brutish boy approached. He was about to be in a great deal of physical pain, he was certain, but this was going to be _fun_.

"Hello, Freak," Stubbs said as he unsuccessfully tried to loom over the sitting boy.

"Hello, Warthog," Tom replied mildly, turning a page in his 'extremely engrossing' book.

Stubbs pulled backward slightly in surprise – an emotion which, along with a large helping of utter bamboozlement, was clear upon his features. After a few moments his face flushed and he glared at Tom.

"You're going to regret that!" Stubbs declared loudly.

Several children playing nearby turned to watch in a mixture of vague concern (mostly for their games and own safety) and entertained curiosity.

"Yes," Tom agreed in the same mild, unaffected tone, although the truth was that he would not. "I find I tend to regret telling the truth to people who cannot accept it."

Stubbs blinked at him, aware that he had been insulted, but not quite certain where in Tom's statement the insult had been.

Tom, who had yet to raise his head to look at Stubbs, turned a page and continued to read …or, rather, give the impression that he was reading.

"Don't _ignore _me!" Stubbs snapped finally.

Tom actually paused slightly at that, for there was something in the tone that suggested the hurt at being ignored ran much deeper that mere irritation. Mentally, Tom changed his record of Stubbs from 'loving parents' to 'one loving parent'.

After a moment, in which he could see Stubbs' hands beginning to clench, Tom closed his book slowly and passed it to Amy – who had been sitting nearby – and said, "Take this inside for me, will you?"

Amy nodded immediately, accepted the book and hurried inside: she was well aware that this was more about getting her out of the way – for which she could not deny she was a bit glad although she didn't like leaving him alone with the bully – than it was about the book needing to go in.

"What can I do for you today, Mister Stubbs?" Tom inquired, his tone pleasant and polite, as he leaned back against the steps that lead into the building.

"Stop it!" Stubbs snapped, irritated.

Tom frowned at him. "Stop what?" he asked, all innocence and concern.

Stubbs face flushed from the slight pink which had yet to fade from his cheeks to an outright, blotchy, vermillion. "STOP ACTING LIKE YOU'RE NOT UPSET!" the boy roared, his fists compulsively clenching and unclenching as he did.

Tom actually paid the compulsive twitch more attention than he did the boy's face: it was a far better measure for how upset the boy was. Tom smiled pleasantly – it was a trick his time with Edward had taught him and he knew from experience how frightening and upsetting failure to get correct reactions could be.

"I'm sorry that you have yet to understand this," Tom said sweetly, "but I have forgiven you. I don't want to fight and if you are still upset about the matter I can only assume that it is your own feelings of regret and guilt speaking. Perhaps you would like to talk to Miss Bonner about it? She wants a mid-summer wedding so she isn't terribly busy right now."

Stubbs hands ceased to clench compulsively, this time holding their tightly closed position. He trembled from head to toe with barely suppressed rage and, after a moment of utter silence, quite unexpectedly shouted, "WHAT DOES IT _TAKE _TO GET A _REACTION_ OUT OF YOU?"

Several of the children watching from nearby pulled back slightly, as if afraid that the boy would get tired of the freak's failure to react and might turn on them.

Tom idly wiped away an imagined bit of spit from his face and – in a calm, casual tone which completely concealed the faint alarm he felt at the knowledge that he was about to pass the point of no return – he said, "Well, it certainly takes more than that."

The elder child gave what was practically a howl of rage at being so easily dismissed and lashed out at Tom.

As Stubbs was so much larger that Tom was, it must have seemed to the large audience of children – none of whom cared enough to risk interrupting, no matter how inappropriate it was to simply stand there and watch what they must have believed was going to be one child being beaten to a pulp by another for no good reason – that Tom was doomed. After all, Stubbs was much larger, much more muscular and, most likely, had much more skill and practice when it came to punching people.

However, for Tom being smaller meant being more agile and, oddly enough, Tom was far more willing to fight dirty. Stubbs, it seemed, was used to fights where he hit people and they, occasionally, hit back.

Tom never bothered to try and land a punch. He spat, he clawed, he bit and he shrieked loudly in his opponent's ears – and all the while he did his best to remain too close to Stubbs for the larger boy to successfully hit him with any great force.

Somehow, sometime shortly after the fight had turned physical, they had shifted from standing to rolling across the courtyard, each trying to inflict as much damage as possible on the other.

Tom was certain, although the noise was vague, that a fairly large crowd of children had gathered and were cheering the fight on.

Stubbs managed to whack Tom hard across the face with a glancing blow, while Tom was beneath him, but Tom bit down as his hand passed and took advantage of Stubbs' momentary pained distraction to slam his head against Stubbs' as hard as he could.

There was a cheer from the audience.

Tom, rather woozy, thought that it was kind of ridiculous. Any amusement he might have felt, however, faded when Stubbs launched himself down onto Tom again and pressed one thick, muscular, bleeding forearm down across Tom's throat.

The switch to complete and utter panic was instantaneous.

Tom's eyes widened, he clawed uselessly at the large arm constricting his air supply and in that moment, as Stubbs sneered down at him, he could have sworn that it was _Edward _holding him down and _Edward's _hand upon his throat.

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?" the matron roared as she came out of the building, with little Amy trailing behind her.

_Good work, Amy,_ Tom thought faintly as Stubbs pulled away and his vision began to clear.

"Stubby started it!" Amy insisted in a whinging manner.

Tom, who was still on his back and staring faintly up at the sky, hardly realised that he was still gasping for air. Nevertheless, he threw one arm straight up into the air above him in a gesture of triumph. Mere moments later his energy gave out and his arm fell back down to the ground.

Everyone who had seen it stared at him.

"Mister Riddle?" Mrs. Cole asked, clearly concerned.

"'m alright," Tom gasped, croakily, in response.

Stubbs, who was standing right next to Tom's feet, stared at him in amazed bewilderment.

Tom managed to slightly lift one foot and kick out at the other boy, but the result was a very wobbly movement that barely brushed the edge of Stubbs' trouser leg.

"An' tha' was for the nose," Tom managed to gasp out, still staring up at the sky.

Mrs. Cole seemed torn between yelling at them and putting her face in her hands until they went away.

* * *

Once it had been ascertained that no one was actually seriously injured, the boys were made to bathe, were bandaged by the doctor and forcibly handed back over to the matron. They were assigned chores as punishment – very separate chores – and Tom could not help but notice, as it seemed Stubbs also did, that his chores were somewhat lighter and less …punishment-like… than Stubbs'.

Tom could guess from the almost shifty look the matron had given him that she knew perfectly well what she had been doing when she assigned the chores and that it was, in a manner, her way of punishing Stubbs for what she could not prove he had done all those months ago or her way of apologising to Tom because she believed he was mostly defending himself.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Cole had too much experience with the damage Tom could get up to if left alone with work of any kind. Therefore, unlike Stubbs and the physical labours he was left alone with, excluding regular checking up on him, Tom was assigned chores which put him constant contact with at least one staff member – usually the matron herself, but never the doctor – at all times.

Tom didn't particularly, mind the punishment, since much of it required him to use him mind and whether it was helping with planning meals based on the finances or helping to correct papers written by other children for the end of the Spring term the day before (although he was merely ten years old he had advanced in his studies enough that he was studying with the thirteen years old children and therefore able to correct the papers of children two years his elder) Tom was almost enjoying himself. The only part which he actively hated was when the adults would start chatting about how the abdicated king – Edward – had been created Duke of Windsor. He would have preferred it if they had been discussing something a little less dull – such as the Spanish Civil War thing or the Trotty person from Eastern Europe somewhere, which Tom didn't really follow when Martha talked about them, but which sounded significantly more exciting.

Tom actually felt a little sorry for the matron, since for once – in his opinion – she actually seemed to be trying to be fair, but nowhere near sorry enough to prevent him from continuing on his course of action.

Both Tom and Stubbs were sent to bed early and the next day, after everyone had returned from church – except the few people who never went – the chores continued.

In fact, for the rest of that day – excluding meals – Tom and Stubbs were assigned chores. Although, unlike Tom, after dinner Stubbs' was excused from further chores in order to write a new essay for his teacher because he had done such a poor job the last time ...and, of course, he was given the chance to feed his pet rabbit after dinner before he got started.

The day had been singularly cold and inclement, although not nearly so cold as some days in winter had been, so it was with surprising unanimity that the staff and orphans all chose to sit together in the drawing room for the evening – only ever leaving briefly to retrieve an item of some sort or to use the lavatory. They were quite lucky that it was a large room.

Tom sat unpleasantly close to the fire, directly by the matron's side – just as he had been since dinner ended.

Not long after dinner ended, Stubbs returned from feeding his rabbit and took up a free space directly across from Tom – both so that no one could deny that he was re-writing his assignment and so that he could be smirk threateningly at Tom.

At one point, while he helped Mrs. Cole with the inventory (which, Tom had noted, had been missing a sheet ever since early February), Tom thought he saw Amy step out – probably to get a toy as the next time Tom glanced in that direction she was once again playing some sort of silly game with a few other girls her age and an assortment of old soft toys and dolls. Tom actually felt rather sorry for Mokey – who was apparently hosting the tea party.

About an hour, roughly, after dinner, Margaret Sawyer eagerly left the small group of children who had been trading recipes from their lost families with the cook and apprentice cook. She said something cheerful and eager about getting her recipe book right before she left the room and – although there were a great deal of people in the room – conversation returned to its earlier low chatter. It was surprisingly peaceful, excluding the occasional yelp of dismay from the group playing (and watching people play) Monopoly.

There was a bloodcurdling scream from somewhere else in the building.

* * *

In spite of the barked order from the matron that everyone except staff should stay where they were, a large group of orphans had followed the staff in their rush to find out what had happened.

Margaret Sawyer was found on the first floor, wide eyed and ashen faced, with her back pressed against the wall near the landing and her legs and skirt smeared with fresh blood. There was a soft, steady dripping noise as well, but amid the chaos of voices it was practically inaudible.

From what the small cluster of orphans could see between the staff members, there was a long, thin, smear of blood on the floor – on which Margaret, who had been in a hurry, must have slipped.

Doctor Elder, who had no patience for panic, looked down at the girl and inquired, "What happened, you little fool? Are you hurt or not?"

Peggy Sawyer's mouth moved almost silently, opening and closing vacantly. Finally, however, she silently pointed up – past the doctor – at something above the start of the smear on the floor. All eyes turned to the place she had gestured toward.

There was a dusty old sheet wrapped around one of the rafters, a sheet which could easily been the one missing since February, on which there were a few small and bloody smears.

A rabbit had been hung from the loose end of the sheet – well above the tallest of human heads – and from its neatly cut open, dangling, forelimbs blood dripped to the floor at a slow, steady pace. It was clear from the speed that the rabbit was already mostly drained.

Billy Stubbs gave a cry of horror at the sight of his pet – the only thing he had from his parents – hanging their so irrevocably destroyed.

Mrs. Cole's eyes narrowed and she turned to look from him to the dark haired boy at the edge of the group (who was covering Amy's eyes).

"What are you looking at me for?" Tom asked, baffled and annoyed. "I've been with you all day."

The matron's mouth clacked shut.


	55. Holding Court: March 21st, 1937

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N****:** I had trouble with a troll recently, and so was forced to block anonymous reviewing - however as has now changed things so that there is no anon review block unless one is being spammed I have sent support a message requesting it be blocked for my stories (they said they have a tool for that) and can only hope that they are willing to block it for me because I do not know if that troll will take the opportunity to return and, frankly, I no longer feel safe – the whole situation reminds me too much of the time I had a stalker. That being said, as much as I appreciate reviews, right now getting anonymous reviews involves more dread than it should and it's making me jumpy. So as strange as it may sound, as grateful as I am for every review I get (excluding, of course, insane troll comments that have nothing to do with the story) I'd actually be more grateful right now if I didn't get anonymous reviews. Also, it's worth noting that I may eventually move all my works over to AO3 (my invite request might go through in 2013) or a journaling site (I already have a livejournal for this story where I archive the fact finders and will put up the notes I had for the rest of the series, but I need to clean it up). That won't be until long after this story's complete, though.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Five: Holding Court**

The first thing that happened after the alarming discovery of the rabbit was that the matron ordered the staff to search every room for signs of someone having broken in from outside, while the eldest children were told to guard all the younger children in the drawing room. The search had turned up nothing, though, so attention was then turned to other practical matters.

Henry Cole had taken on the unpleasant job of cleaning up the floor, while Simon and Jonathan had gone to retrieve a ladder so that the rabbit and sheet could be taken down. Martha, once certain that Peggy Sawyer was unharmed, had remained in order to examine the deceased (it was generally agreed that unless she found something truly extraordinary there would be no point in calling in Janvier, the coroner, for a rabbit) and Peggy herself was ushered off to take a bath. Eleanor, Harold and Mary took charge of matters in the drawing room – where all of the orphans had reassembled, mostly because it was warm and comfortable – and, ever practical, Eleanor set to work making inquiries, by the end of which she had a definitive list of which children had left the room (by admission or because someone swore they'd seen that child leave) between when the rabbit was last seen alive and when the rabbit was found. Tom Riddle wasn't on it.

It was around this time that Jonathan came downstairs, with Simon in tow, and informed the matron – in bafflement – that the doctor wished to see both her and Mary upstairs.

Eleanor and Mary traded worried glances – for there was only the one secret between the three of them – and hurriedly left to find the doctor. When they reached the place the rabbit had been found they noticed that Henry had done an excellent job of cleaning the black and white tiled floor. They could hear running water nearby, which suggested that the man himself was finished with the job and had moved on to tidying himself up.

Doctor Elder was in the infirmary, with the blood smeared sheet keeping the rabbit from bleeding onto the examination table. She bore a very grave look on her face and – to their surprise – was holding a well-used blue logbook in one hand.

Eleanor recognised it immediately. "Well?" she asked, sharply.

Doctor Elder offered the book to them, explaining only for Mary's sake, "This contains a record of Tom's physics defying outbursts and the practice he has put – under my guidance – into learning to control them."

Mary blinked at her in surprise.

The doctor nodded with surprising grace in her direction. "I do not pretend to know _why_ he is able to bend natural laws, I only study the phenomenon in hopes of understanding _how_ it works," she stated. "However, Tom Riddle is a very talkative child and has never failed to tell me exactly how his practice is going – that is how I know my logbook is accurate. So far he has never succeeded in causing any effect when more than one room away – and usually there must be an open door between the two." She paused briefly to look between her colleagues, then continued, "In order for him to have done this," here she paused to tap twice on the examination table just next to the bloody sheet, "he would have to have left the room and gone upstairs."

Mary, who had hesitantly accepted the logbook and begun leafing through it (and whose eyes had gone very wide when she realised how early the first recorded incidents actually were), paused in her actions and looked between her colleagues with a concerned expression. "I don't recall him leaving the room," she said softly.

Eleanor sighed. "And the rabbit, Martha?" she asked, referring to the doctor's findings.

Doctor Elder arched an eyebrow elegantly. "I'm not a coroner, but Stubbs fed the rabbit after dinner – two hours ago – so from the state of rigor mortis I would guess it died soon after that. Again, though, I am neither a coroner nor an expert on rabbits. It's an educated guess."

The matron nodded.

Now fully in professional attitude, Doctor Elder carefully lifted one of the back limbs of the rabbit, only slightly, and pressed a finger against the top of its foot. "There are clear indications," the doctor said, "that the rabbit was struggling against the bonds which held its hind legs. What is more, as the slight injury to the hind limbs suggests a downward motion was attempted, I would be willing to bet that the rabbit was alive when it was hung from the rafters."

Mary looked slightly ill at the thought.

"Is there anything else?" Eleanor asked.

One of the doctor's eyebrows quirked again and she replied, "Quite a bit, I'm afraid. Whoever did this must have had at least a cursory knowledge of rabbit anatomy – most people who do not would assume, if they decided on a hanging, that they could put a noose around the rabbit's neck and the effect would be exactly the same as on a human: death from a broken neck or from strangulation. It's not as _easy_ to strangle a quadruped that way as it is a biped, although I suppose it might be possible, and while one could hope the neck would break that is not even a certainty among humans. However, the point is moot: the person who did this tied the rabbit's legs and so the hanging part must have been purely in order to get our attention."

Mrs. Cole sighed again and nodded for the doctor to continue.

"From what I can tell, there are no signs of poison," Doctor Elder stated. Then she turned the rabbit carefully so that the front limbs were more visible to her colleagues – although neither of their expressions implied appreciation for this – and continued, "The slices to the forelimbs were deep and the fact that the rabbit was hung from its back legs suggests the responsible party meant for gravity to do most of the work. This rabbit bled to death. I found traces of ink on the fur around the cuts, which implies that whoever did this used a fountain pen."

"Those are accessible in the schoolrooms," Mary cut in, upset. "Everyone has access to them expect the very youngest children!"

"It would have taken a fair amount of effort, so accessibility must have been their main concern, especially because such a weapon would have to be unusually sharp as well," the doctor concurred. "The knives in the kitchen must have been unreachable."

"There is something else, bothering you, Martha," Eleanor said, wincing as she did at the thought of how easy it would be to clean one of the pens of blood and put it back in a schoolroom unnoticed during the weekend.

The doctor nodded slightly a few times, staring very seriously at the matron's face as she did. "The rabbit would have died of blood loss without being hung from the rafters, so putting it in such a public place implies that the person who did it wanted Stubbs to see it," she said. "This was done for dramatic effect."

Eleanor Cole looked down, swallowed tightly and said, in a tone that brooked no argument, "Staff meeting: ten minutes."

* * *

It actually took a total of fifteen minutes before the staff had assembled in the staff room. This was mostly because Henry Cole had found a somewhat bent fountain pen (with an alarmingly sharp and warped tip) stuffed down the drain in the sink and it had taken him some time, equivalent to when the doctor was speaking with the matron, to work it back out – by which point, unfortunately, it would have been quite pointless to hope for any identifiers.

As it was late at night on a weekend, only seven people were present and they were seated in a vague approximation of a circle. The matron went over what was known – such as the discovery of the fountain pen and the list of persons who had been out of the room within the right time frame – while fixing every one of her colleagues with a very serious look and then nodded to the doctor.

"I am not a psychiatrist," Doctor Elder said sternly. "I do not pretend to be one. However, I know enough of the matter that I must stress how serious this is. If we are incorrect about our identification of the culprit, then we likely would be publicly placing blame on an innocent child – and letting a dangerous one roam undetected. I would like to believe that this was a case of a child losing their temper and acting in a rash manner, learned from their previous home, which they later will come to regret – but most of the evidence seems to suggest that this was thought through. If we are not _absolutely certain_ that we have the right child we cannot, in good conscience, take action."

Eleanor nodded and continued where the doctor left off, "If we cannot find the culprit we must watch all those who it could have been carefully and wait for them to either act out again or make it clear that they were the guilty party." She gave her staff one last, hard look and then sharply asked, "Thoughts? In order, if you please."

Henry Cole, who was sitting to the immediate right of his wife, jerked slightly in surprise – for he had not expected to be the first to speak. "Um, well," he began, stumbling somewhat to put his thoughts into words. "The child we'd all expect to see on this list isn't there," he managed, shrugging faintly in the direction of the written list.

Martha looked up sharply. "_Ex__**cuse**__ me._ People who have been imprisoned for theft do not get hung for murder just because they _happened_ to be _in the area_," she stated coldly, "…at least, not officially."

Henry winced. "That's not…" he began. Then he sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. "I only meant that if Riddle had been on the list it would have made sense: everyone knows they hate each other. No one else has a reason. …Obvious. No one else has an obvious reason."

"What I'd like to know is how they got the rabbit up there," Simon cut in, acutely aware of how uncomfortable Henry was becoming. Thankfully, he was sitting next to Henry and therefore Eleanor did not chastise him for speaking out of order. "After all," the cook continued, "we had to use a ladder to get it down. It's not as if tossing it up and hoping that it looped around a rafter would have worked."

"They would have needed the ladder," Jonathan replied.

Henry tilted his head slightly to the side. "I did see a few new marks on the tiles which could have been made by the ladder," he said. "But three or so children standing on each others' shoulders would also have been able to reach and would have had the weight to make them."

"There were never three or more children out at the same time," Harold stated, not bothering to take his eyes away from the fire next to which he was seated.

Doctor Elder, who was seated across from him and therefore the only other person directly by the fire, gave him a shrewd look as he stretched his fingers toward the heat. However, all she said was, "Although difficult, if one of the younger children had the determination it is possible that they could have carried the ladder – however it is highly improbable."

"Why would any of them do this?" Mary exclaimed, frustrated, causing both Jonathan and Harold to pull back slightly because she had spoken so loudly.

"Jealousy," Simon suggested, lifting his cup of tea, only to pause halfway through the movement when he noticed the sharp gaze Jonathan had fixed on him. It was for that reason that the cook, without the slightest hint of his normal puppy like temperament, locked eyes with the teacher and extrapolated, "There were a fair few children who were upset that Billy Stubbs had been allowed to keep his pet when they had not. It doesn't have to be love and romance for someone to be driven by jealousy and an unfair choice to …make it fair."

Jonathan pressed his lips together tightly. It was obvious to him that Simon was referring back to the situation with Mary and the teacher did not need to be looking the cook in the eyes to know the steady and intense feeling behind the words – feelings which made the atmosphere in the room tenser than it had already been.

Eleanor sighed. "It's plausible enough," she conceded, "but how _any_ of them managed to take the ladder up and down without being heard…" The matron trailed off, shaking her head.

Martha spoke in her typical dry, ironical tone, "Perhaps the orphanage is haunted." As she was watching the fire rather than the proceedings, it was almost impossible to spot the barest flicker of what might have been a smile as it touched the corner of her mouth.

Simon turned to her, wide eyed, leaning past Henry and Eleanor as he did. "Did you just make a joke?" he asked, both amazed and amused. "I could have sworn I just heard you make a joke."

Eleanor and Mary were both slightly tense and they shared a concerned look – for they (and only they) knew that the doctor's suggestion was perfectly serious. Mary had not been happy in the least when she had been informed that there were what appeared to be restless spirits on the loose, according to the doctor's record, and this subtly included explanation of events made her even less happy than before.

Harold Cole made a sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt. "Bloody stupid time to gain a sense of humour," he grumbled.

"I agree," Jonathan stated tersely. "This is not a joking matter. I would have expected better of you, Doctor. Perhaps you ought to try saying something _constructive_."

"Amy Benson," the doctor replied, with the tone of her voice plain and the look in her eyes shrewd as she nodded to the list which gave the names of the children who had left the room and the times at which they had been absent.

Henry nearly spit out the sip of tea he had just taken. "What?" he spluttered.

Doctor Elder regarded him coolly for a moment. "Love and the desire to protect loved ones from harm is a far stronger motivator than jealousy and bitterness," she stated. "Grand tales of revenge and jealousy are all well and good, but in reality people are more likely to cross moral lines – to do absolutely anything – to protect the ones they love. Amy Benson is devoted to Tom Riddle – who is regularly bullied by William Stubbs. Amy Benson was out of the room long enough and Amy Benson was alone."

There was chaos. Loud exclamations came from all sides of the malformed circle the staff had made when they sat down and shock was visible on many faces – no one had expected Martha to suggest that her favourite's favourite could be anything less than completely innocent.

Jonathan Stone was the only one not to make some noise at the suggestion and he sat silently, thinking it through. "Your logic is correct," he conceded as the noise died down. "However it would be extremely difficult for a seven year old to carry a ladder up and down the stairs on her own. The explanation is possible, but not likely."

Eleanor shook her head, frustrated. "It makes no sense at all," she muttered. "It makes no sense that the girl should be so loyal to the one who tormented her on their little cave exploration!"

"Excuse me, Matron," Jonathan stated, with disapproval clear in his voice, "but you never proved that Tom Riddle was responsible for that."

"It's not the point," Mary said as soothingly as she could. "Amy couldn't have carried the ladder, so even if she wanted to hurt the rabbit because Tom told her to she couldn't have."

"Ah!" Harold Cole, seated next to her, exclaimed sharply, the tone making it clear that there was some sort of disapproval in the meaning of the syllable. "She never said that Tom Riddle _asked _Amy Benson to do anything," he pointed out. "You are putting words in her mouth. The boy could be completely innocent and the girl stronger than she looks. You are assuming that the boy is guilty somehow because you do not like the boy. It is possible that he was the one who planned it but that doesn't mean he _did_."

There was a moment of silence, for no one there was used to the eldest staff member making such long comments of any kind.

Finally, though, Eleanor exclaimed, "But Amy Benson's a sweet girl!"

Martha's eyes narrowed. "So your criteria for whether a child is guilty or not is whether you personally do or do not _like_ them?" she inquired with audible disgust, turning in her seat to stare down at the matron as she did. "It is little _wonder_ the children in this orphanage feel the need to take matters into their own hands – the only authority they have is blatantly corrupt!"

The exclamation was much louder than any the staff members were used to hearing from the doctor and Mrs. Cole pulled backward as if she had been slapped.

"Maybe we should all calm down," Henry suggested cautiously, pulling ever so slightly on his wife's arm as he did.

"This arguing is not bringing us to any conclusions," Harold added sternly. "Stay with the facts or do not talk at all."

"The facts," Simon said morosely, "are that any of the people on that list – including Peggy Sawyer – could have moved fast enough to do it and, potentially, carried the ladder. They all could be jealous of Stubbs for having the rabbit or been trying to teach a bully a lesson. The facts are that we don't know anything for sure. We don't even know if Stubbs was telling the truth when he said it was alive; he was the last to enter the room and could easily have done the deed while pretending he was there to feed it."

"Oh, don't be horrid!" Mary exclaimed.

"He's correct," the doctor stated tonelessly. "If Stubbs had tired of his pet – as children often do – he easily could have created sympathy for himself, rid himself of it and created trouble for the boy he had beaten the day before (a boy he has a history of fighting with) if he figured we would likely blame Tom."

"Everyone knew about the fight yesterday – any of them could have hoped that it would make Tom Riddle seem the likely culprit," Harold stated seriously.

"Wonderful," Henry muttered, "more options."

"In other words," Eleanor exclaimed, frustrated, "we know nothing. _How_ are we supposed to bring justice down on the culprit if we know nothing?"

"We don't have to," Mary said softly, although her tone was quite certain. "God will do that – it's not entirely our job."

"So we wait," Jonathan agreed. "We wait, we watch and we do nothing."

There was a pause as everyone took in this, clearly and unpleasantly final, decision.

Doctor Elder looked up thoughtfully. "What do we do with the dead rabbit?" she asked.

* * *

_**A/N: **_Some of you may be wondering by now when I am going to explain how the rabbit got into the rafters. The answer is that I wrote the Rabbit Arc, as I mentally called it, to be ambiguous. So ambiguous, in fact, that even_ I_ don't know who killed the rabbit, why they did it and how they got it into the rafters.

It could be that Tom asked Amy to lift it into the rafters with her abilities or it could be that she did it on her own accord because Tom's revenge plan was implausible or going to get him in trouble or just not going to be enough to stop Stubbs picking on him. It could be that neither of them was involved and Stubbs was trying to get Tom in trouble or that Peggy Sawyer or an unnamed orphan was jealous and bitter about Stubbs being the only one to keep a pet, used the ladder and figured the blame would land on Tom. I also purposely wrote the evidence to point in multiple directions (the malformed pen could be a sign of Tom or Amy's abilities, or that pen could have been found by an opportunist after being used for magic practice or morphed by something else, the knowledge of rabbit anatomy sounds like Stubbs, but Tom's an avid reader, so on, so forth).

Like with Arnold Fitzgerald, I'm not going to let you in on the truth, because I, myself, don't know what happened. Feel free to pick a pet theory and hug it.

**To Anla'shok: **It's not that she's a dangerous role model so much as it is that all justice systems (and reciprocal justice, sometimes call revenge, is a perfectly valid and workable system) are dangerous when out of control or misused – just as they all have their strengths and weaknesses. For instance, while revenge can occasionally lead to vengeance cycles wherein no one knows when to stop (an out of control justice system), the current western justice system forces victims to defend themselves to an authority who will decide whether or not their pain is worth something …and because they have no personal involvement can be bribed or otherwise corrupted. Comparatively, the ancient Greek civilisations had a reciprocal justice system which worked very well most of the time. *shrugs* The widely accepted personality theory I subscribe to, and on which I've based a great deal of this story, makes it pretty clear that the world's population is split fifty-fifty between people – like myself – to whom reciprocal justice is the right justice system and people – like, I think, J.K. Rowling – to whom reciprocal justice is not the right justice system. Neither party is more right or wrong than the other, but they're never going to agree.

But I digress. It's not so much that she's a dangerous role model for agreeing to turn a blind eye – and trusting that what Tom's does will be equal rather than anything he feels like – on just one occasion because, and only because, the authority has proven itself biased and has carried out an injustice. The problem, and the danger in this case, comes with the fact that Tom is more damaged already than she realises – if he had been undamaged then he would be in the half who are naturally inclined to and able to balance reciprocal justice so that it doesn't get out of hand, but he is damaged (not yet insane but getting closer by the day) so what could have been perfectly sound advice winds up seriously misunderstood.

I make a point of Martha always giving sound advice – even if her principles and the theories she supports are not the most popular – but as Tom becomes more embittered and faces more horrors the message sent and the message received start to differ wildly.

Sorry, I seemed to be babbling. It's never an easy or simple topic, though, and he does have to become Voldemort eventually. *shrugs again* You're quite right about Mrs. Cole, though – a combination of unconscious prejudice, being overworked and not having evidence was enough for her to let it slide.

I'm really glad that you think I've got the mixture of intelligence and lack of maturity right in Tom, though, since the more information you give me on when most people start asking such questions the more I realise how badly I could have gotten it wrong.

Pitiable? It's good to know I haven't made him too flat a character. Indeed, sadly plenty of adults with no such tragedy or problems also just watch when fights happen. It's one of the most terrible things about human nature.

**To x-Hallelujah-x:** I'm very glad to know you find him more human and that the plot line is quite to your liking. …To be honest I'm not entirely sure how to reply to most of your comment because the compliment has left me kind of tongue-tied (type-tied? Keyboard-tied?). I'm actually rather disappointed that I won't be continuing, myself, but as much as I love writing it I have to sacrifice it in favour of my work. *shrugs* On the upside, though, knowing that I won't write the sequels means that I can put some things in the epilogue which I would otherwise only have been able to hint at.

**To Dhelana Joie:** As my next writing project will be the start of my career as a professional novelist, I'm afraid that emailing you a copy will be quite impossible. If I remember, I might drop you a PM when I'm about to have a novel published – but the process of writing and finding a publisher, editing, etc does take years. Is it okay if I feel honoured by your multiple reviews?

You don't need a mental asylum – which is a good thing, since I can only give more of Tom.

**To jYK:** Thank you, I'm glad you liked it.


	56. The Snakes: July 24th, 1937

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Six: The Snakes**

After serious discussion it had been deemed 'in bad taste' to take the children on an excursion specifically to look at animals a mere few months after the untimely demise of Billy Stubbs' rabbit. It was for that reason that Stonehenge, rather than the London Zoological Garden, was the destination chosen for the summer outing that year.

Tom was still the most suspect regarding the hanging of the rabbit, even though word had spread that only someone who had not been in the room could have done it (and everyone knew Tom had not left the room). Logic, it seemed, could not stand in the way of a favoured rumour. The second most popular explanation, oddly enough, had become that the orphanage was haunted by malevolent spirits of murdered children and – in the months that had passed since the rabbit was found – this had the unexpected result of cancelling out the further ostracism by those who believed Tom was responsible for the incident. Some orphan or other had discovered one night, while eavesdropping on the things Tom had been telling Amy, that the Riddle freak was actually a very talented story teller. He knew, that is to say, how to make his audience cheer …and how to make them scream. Most of the secret audiences he had gathered wanted to scream.

Tom was quite certain that Martha only allowed the storytelling sessions because she knew that if Tom was entertaining her patients they weren't whining for her attention. When he wasn't blatantly trying to get out of trouble, it seemed, Tom could give a truly riveting speech …and the 'explanations' he gave for the rabbit incident – which ranged from ghosts to an actual break in to monsters in the walls and staff members secretly being murderers …the last of which the doctor stopped the moment she realised where it was going, because the children needed to trust their caretakers – never failed to thrill his audiences. It also didn't hurt that he could actually make small items suddenly fall without touching them just to spook his audience further.

Of course, Tom was acutely aware that he was only ever popular with these audiences at night – when there were no other groups of children to see them interacting – and only so long as he did not try to acknowledge them when anyone else was around. Tom wasn't stupid enough to try: he'd take what limited interaction he could get. Amy, after all, was the only one who would ever _really_ stay with him (except maybe the doctor, but she was an adult) …Dennis had taught him that.

The night before the summer outing had been a full moon and Tom had taken advantage of the fact to tell a terrifying story of a mad burglar who became convinced he was actually a werewolf and started hunting prey animals – such as rabbits and unsuspecting orphans – on full moon nights.

Martha had dubbed it the most ridiculous bunch of utter rubbish she had heard in years and ordered them all to go to sleep. Tom was rather proud of the story for extracting such a response from her.

It was because of that story, though, that Tom found himself falling asleep on the train as they travelled toward Stonehenge – he had stayed up longer than he had intended to telling it and they had all been required to get up bright and early to go on the trip. If he'd known Amy would start trying to decorate his hair he might have tried to stay awake, but instead he slept lightly – with his head practically in the seven year old girl's lap. As far as he was concerned she could tell him the important parts of all her fears and worries and problems later, when he was awake. After all, he was always solving her problems for her so it was about time she took her turn at being a living pillow and it wasn't as if it was his fault that he'd fallen asleep – the problems of little girls, even his one, could sometimes be very boring.

* * *

The summer sunshine in Wiltshire was bright, like it had been when Miss Mary and Mister Stone had married. In Tom's personal opinion, weddings were very boring affairs – it was for that reason that he could not understand why so many of the adults were still so focused on the Duke of Windsor (Tom wasn't sure who that was) marrying some Simpering Wall person (Tom was even less sure who that was) in France all the way back in early June. The date was July twenty-fourth and many more interesting things – such as the introduction of something called an emergency telephone number around Oxford Circus, which Tom had wanted to call to see how it worked and which thus had resulted in his being given extra chores when caught – had happened since then, so Tom found the adult focus on old, boring events rather baffling.

Nevertheless, the sun was shining brightly and the weather was pleasant (albeit it rather boring).

Amy had hesitantly run off to play with some other girls her age – after casting Tom a worried look that was far too mature for her age – and Tom had found this somewhat surprising, since more and more of the children were beginning to shun Amy for the 'crime' of being his friend.

Tom looked around the bright, sunny area near the grand old stones and rolled his eyes. All the other children were playing or walking and many had toys with them – Tom, however, had not been permitted his book because the matron felt that a nice day out in the country should not be spent hiding his face in a book. Apparently, Tom was supposed to do as all the others were: run around and enjoy the country air. Tom couldn't see the appeal.

However, there was one thing that Tom could do here – if his memory served him right – that he could not do back in London. It was for that reason that Tom sat down behind one of the great old stones, well hidden from view (in his opinion), closed his eyes and let out a very soft sound which might have been a hiss.

To Tom's ears, however, it came across as a loud and clear, "Hello?"

After a few moments, although the actual hissing noise was far too far away for the boy to hear it, Tom heard someone say, "Hello, warmth to your scales!" in a bright and cheery tone.

"Salutations, little biped," a second, more solemn voice added.

Tom made a tiny noise which projected somehow as a giggle. "Warmth to your scales, both," he replied, figuring this was some sort of standard greeting.

"Now then," the first snake said in a bright and business-like tone. "We were discussing the possibility of definitive truth and I'm afraid we've come to a lake that may be too big for crossing, have you any opinion on the matter?"

Tom blinked, trying to figure out whether the cheery serpent meant that he and his companion had literally come across a large lake or if it was a metaphor for coming to a standstill in an argument.

"What, exactly," he hesitantly inquired, "do you mean by definitive truth?"

"If reality _is_ and if rights and wrongs can in fact be definitively the same for everyone," the solemn serpent replied, "or if they are fluid and changeable per person."

"Hmmm," Tom hissed thoughtfully, "that's an interesting question. What's right for a human might not be right for a snake, after all… and that's assuming there is a right, right?"

"That's what I've been saying!" the cheerful snake chirped with a thrill of vindication in its tone.

Tom smiled slightly as the more solemn snake began its rebuttal. The philosophical nature of snakes never did cease to surprise him.

* * *

Amy stilled as a shadow that did not belong to any of the girls she had been playing with fell upon the ground next to her.

"Hello Benson," said the owner of the shadow.

Amy's hand tightened visibly around Mokey, but she still tilted her little blonde head as superiorly as she could when she looked over her shoulder. "Stubby," she replied, trying and failing to maintain a cool, calm tone.

Billy Stubbs stared down at her with a cold, hard look in his eyes. "I've been asking your friend Tom, you know," he began conversationally. "I've been asking him for months whether he was the one who killed my pet. He swears he wasn't."

"Then maybe he wasn't," Amy said fiercely, although she felt some small amount of pity for the boy who was so obviously hurt by the loss of his pet. Nevertheless, he had hurt her Tommy so she was not willing to help him.

"I suppose we'll know soon," Billy replied as he reached out to pull Mokey from Amy's grasp.

"That's Doctor Elder's!" the little girl exclaimed, trying to do as Tom would and come up with a good excuse without time to think about it.

Billy' paused and gave her a look of disbelief.

Amy nodded at him, for it was technically true, and added, "I think she took it from her last workplace, after they caught her torturing her patients."

Billy pulled back. Technically speaking he knew that Amy was talking rubbish, but the doctor's reputation for being cold, callous and sometimes even vindictive was enough to make any child pause. The lie was obvious and ridiculous, but the doctor's sour personality was enough to make it sound – if only just for a moment – terribly believable.

It may have been the realisation that bothering Amy wasn't going to get him anywhere, or it may have been the fact that he could feel Mrs. Cole's sharp gaze on his back, but Billy Stubbs walked away.

* * *

The awkward silence was broken only by the footfalls of a toddler running ahead of them and occasionally a particularly loud exclamation in the distance, where Mrs. Cole was sharply scolding William Stubbs for taking other children's toys and Amy Benson for telling lies. Neither child was in the least bit repentant.

The walk the pair of colleagues had begun was not unlike another walk they had once taken, but the toddler running ahead of them was no longer Tom Riddle – who was older and, perhaps, wiser – and if there had ever been anything comfortable in the relationship between Martha and Mary, it had long since faded.

"Was it Simon or Lucy?" the doctor asked.

Mary turned to her in surprise.

Doctor Elder arched an eyebrow. "You offered to accompany me on a walk," she elucidated. "You are either trying to avoid Simon or trying to avoid Lucy."

Mary sighed. "I cannot believe she is petty enough to still be upset that I married the man she left ten years ago," she replied.

The doctor's eyebrow, if possible, arched even higher. "I don't particularly care," Martha stated.

"I know," Mrs. Stone replied somewhat tartly. "You've always made it very clear that you don't _care_ for people's feelings."

"I am aware of my faults," the doctor replied calmly.

For a few moments there was silence.

"Stone, stone!" the toddler they were walking exclaimed in delight, waving a pebble about at Mary.

"Very good, James," Mrs. Stone replied, "that is a stone."

As the little boy toddled off to stare at the grass, Mary glanced almost nervously at the doctor.

The doctor evidently saw something very telling in her colleague's eyes, for one could almost hear the unspoken 'ah' as her eyebrow quirked. "You wanted to talk about Tom Riddle," she stated. "He is a rational person, I expect him to continue to behave rationally."

"And if he doesn't?" Mary asked, her tone indicating that she regretted worrying about it, yet could not help but do so. "Martha, the very earliest of the incidents in that blue logbook – they mostly correlate to upsetting emotional states."

"Then I shall have made a mistake," the doctor replied simply. "However, I would not destroy genius with the limitations of its less intelligent peers simply because such a person _could_ become embittered and cruel. To restrain such a mind would certainly lead to resentment and, perhaps not unwarranted, cruelty. Authority is just another voice saying 'go to bed because I said so' without offering an explanation as to why – applying such tactics does not work on those who are more intelligent than most."

"So you do also worry?" Mary pressed, apparently relieved that she was not alone in that.

"Occasionally," the doctor replied.

Mary glanced sideways at her companion and, hoping to finally have a straightforward answer on the subject, sharply and shrewdly asked, "Why?"

As they made their way around the large stones, Doctor Elder arched an eyebrow slightly and said, "Because even I cannot be right at all times and it is natural to be concerned for those decisions which may yet have the greatest impact."

Mary sighed; that answer was a bit _too_ straightforward. Before she could say anything else, though, she began to feel as if she needed to sneeze.

Doctor Elder held a handkerchief out to her, which she took gratefully although she gave her companion an odd look.

"Hay fever," Martha stated mildly. "I haven't forgotten your medical records, Madam Stone. I thought it would be prudent to have an extra handkerchief, as you never are particularly comfortable when we are here."

"Is there such a thing as an intelligent sunbeam?" a voice inquired curiously.

Mary and Martha turned to look up at the nearest of the large stones that made up the national treasure and, to their surprise, found the very subject of their conversation sitting at the foot of one of the grand stones.

Tom completely misinterpreted their expressions and launched into an explanation. "I was just wondering," he said very quickly, "because we were debating whether it was possible that we are all just sunbeams who are dreaming that we are solid or maybe that we are solids who mistake ourselves for sunbeams and in either situation would we actually be wrong about being what we believed ourselves to be?"

Mary picked up the toddler they had been walking before he could run away again, started to walk away and, as she passed Martha, said, "Good luck."

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Guest:** Thank you, I'm glad you've been enjoying it.


	57. Amy's Choice: Sept 23rd, 1937

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** All things considered I am now finally beginning to believe that the troll may have left for good. Sadly, the situation has been resolved far later than I'd have liked, as there is only this chapter, the next and the epilogue left.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Seven: Amy's Choice**

Tom was glaring at the wall. It was a Thursday and he was trapped in one of the school rooms, waiting – impatiently – for the weekday torture to be over. He didn't see why they had to repeat the same few simple facts day after day and week after week (as if it was hard to remember them!). On most days, Tom would have been supremely irritated by this stupid, ridiculous repetition – however, on this particular Thursday Tom was merely irritated (rather than supremely irritated) by it; for he had far more important things to think of (this was usual) and could be sure that he was not missing anything of importance if he did not pay attention.

Tom was not normally inclined to put his thoughts down on paper – they were to easily stolen and mocked that way …and paper was only any good if you were certain of what you wanted to say, else it was an expensive waste – yet in this case, this most serious case, it seemed the only way to make sense of his thoughts on the matter. There was, of course, nothing he could do about it, but the list he had started to work on was not so much a matter of figuring out what to _do _about it as it was figuring out how to _feel_ about it. Feelings were complicated and illogical – and thus difficult to analyse.

Tom did not honestly want to think about it, but – as the matron so often said – not thinking about something wouldn't make it go away. Tom had always found that amusing, for the matron would give the exact opposite advice about monsters under the beds, but the situation he was now in held no room for humour. It was not as if he could do anything about the matter – for an attempt to intervene on his own behalf would result in him losing out regardless of whether or not he was successful and he wasn't even certain if he _wanted_ to intervene.

Amy was going to leave him.

Tom scowled down at his desk. Oh, she certainly wasn't the only little girl the couple from elsewhere in London were looking at, but they would choose her in the end; he could tell. They were always being told to be happy for the orphans who were adopted, often with the justification that they would want others to be happy for them if they were the lucky ones – Tom was wise enough to recognise that for what it was: altruism now in the hopes of receiving later. Tom saw no real point in being happy for Amy – he would get nothing out of it, for the likelihood that they would ever meet again once she had moved away and been given a better education and would inherit the money from her adoptive parents when they died was ridiculously slim. It wasn't even really worthy of calculating …and it wouldn't change the fact that she would be leaving him alone.

Tom scowled again and began trying to draw up a pair of lists. Attempting to apply logic to emotions and quantify them with a value system, he knew from experience, was quite impossible – which left listing reasons for each side of the argument and seeing how many points each side had at the end. It was most irksome.

* * *

Tom had a habit of misplacing things. He was very bright, Amy knew, but he was also absolutely hopeless when it came to being organised and keeping track of his things – that was part of what he needed an Amy for, in her opinion, because she could always figure out how to make things neat and tidy (unlike the wild mess that Tom's room would be if not for the staff refusing to allow it).

Thus it was no surprise to Amy when she came across a crumpled page covered in Tom's writing in a random part of the orphanage – one which Tom did not usually frequent, which made it all the stranger. She carefully smoothed it out, intent on only reading enough to know how Tom would want it disposed of (or returned, as unlikely as that might be) but as she glanced over the page and her eyes grew wide she found that she could not help but read the whole thing. She was too curious to do otherwise.

_Reasons I Should be Happy that Amy May be Adopted_, the top of the page read.

_1. Amy would have a better life and loving family. _

_2. Amy will make new friends._

_3. Matron will call me selfish if I don't support it. _

_4. Why would she __want__ to stay? _

Underneath that list was a second list, which seemed to have suffered the most from the crumpling and which had far more ink spills (suggesting that Tom had paused often while writing, most likely to think) than the first.

_Reasons I Should Not be Happy that Amy May be Adopted_, it read.

_1. Amy will have to make new friends._

_2. I shan't have any friends left. _

_3. Get nothing out of it, no return investment._

_4. Doctor without comparative case for abilities study. _

_5. Amy would be without someone who knew and understood about her abilities – could be returned if upsetting to parents_, here there was an ink spot and then _nnis_.

_6. Alone. _

_7. Am NOT happy. _

Amy stood in the corridor, with the smoothed paper in her hands, for a long time, just thinking. If she hadn't found the paper she would never have realised that Tom was unhappy with the possibility that she would be adopted. She hadn't realised (until that point) that Tom would not be going with her if she was chosen. It was rather adorable, to her, how he could write a whole list on the matter and still fail to understand that he would miss her.

The little girl smiled sadly as she neatly folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket – she'd burn it with her abilities the next time she was sure she was alone; it wasn't something Tom would want other people to read.

* * *

Doctor Elder placed the book down next to Tom's arm as if it was the most normal occurrence in the world.

Tom – who had managed to hurt his hand while searching beneath his desk during class for the list he had lost during the lunch break and thus had been excused to the infirmary – looked at it with undisguised curiosity. It was not, as far as he could tell, a text on any of the sciences.

The doctor, who was wise enough not to bother asking how he had managed to be stood upon, had begun examining his hand carefully and paused when she saw the direction of her patient's gaze. Then, thoughtfully, she pressed down on one of the places Tom had specified was very sore.

Tom cried out in pain and surprise. However he did not bother to glare at Doctor Elder – he knew from experience that she considered a distracted patient's reaction to touching an injury to be a better measure of its severity than the reaction of a patient who was focusing on it. This, Tom supposed, was mostly because she had to work with snivelling little children.

Therefore Tom did not bother complaining about the pain – the doctor would have worked out that it hurt from the yelp – and instead nodded slightly toward the book.

The doctor arched an eyebrow slightly.

"That's not a science book," Tom stated, annoyed.

Doctor Elder gently put down his hand and moved to retrieve a bandage with which to wrap his twisted and trodden upon hand.

"Martha?" Tom inquired, baffled.

"It is a new addition to the orphanage library," the doctor replied as she selected one of the neatly wrapped bandages from amongst her supplies. "It was published two days ago – and suggested for the orphanage by an associate of mine who works at Pembroke College, Oxford, where the author works. Although, I believe the publishing company have advertised it several times before it actually became available in order to attract more buyers. It is a rather crude tactic, in my opinion, but indubitably a successful one." The doctor paused, having finally selected a bandage, and looked at the boy thoughtfully. "It is fiction and – I believe – meant for children, thus I cannot be sure if it would be to your taste."

"My taste?" Tom repeated. "You said it was for the orphanage."

Doctor Elder lifted his arm again to begin wrapping his hand in the bandage, and gave him a sharp look.

Tom blinked and then realised where his error had been. "It is for the orphanage but you would be willing to let me read it first, because I'm always careful with books," Tom stated simply.

A moment later his eyes narrowed. "Is this a ploy to make me stop thinking about Amy?" he inquired sharply. "I don't want pity. THAT HURTS!"

The doctor quirked an eyebrow slightly at the sudden exclamation and loosened the bandage slightly before continuing to wrap it around her patient's arm.

After a few moments, Tom looked back up at the doctor and asked, "Did your associate upset you?"

That time the sharp tug as the bandage was moved around him had to be done on purpose.

Tom sighed. "I know," he said. "It's not my business. It's just that you didn't seem all that happy with your associate…"

"It was Cecil," Martha replied as she finished securing the bandage. "You may recall my surviving younger brother."

"Oh," Tom replied, realising that his curiosity had led him – once again – to pry into matters he oughtn't to have pried into. He didn't know much about the doctor's private life, but he knew the siblings did not like each other.

There was a pause as the doctor set his arm down.

"May I still borrow the book first?" Tom inquired, trying not to sound too hopeful – it wasn't so much that he was interested in stories for children, but the cover and title did not reveal much of anything about it so it felt rather like a mystery waiting to be solved.

"Be careful with your hand when you hold it," the doctor replied blandly.

Tom nodded and carefully picked up the book in his right, uninjured, hand. This was not his preferred hand and so his grasp seemed somewhat less controlled than usual.

After a moment, Tom slid out of the chair and asked, "What's going to happen to Amy?"

Martha pressed her lips together for a moment. "I have been asked," she stated, "to compile a brief description of the health of two girls who are nearly eight years in age. Amy Benson is one, the other is Rose Smith. Either one may be adopted by the couple the matron has been interviewing, but I could not say for certain which – you already know this."

Tom nodded, his shoulders sagging slightly as he did. The boy walked toward the main infirmary door – having no desire to climb through his wardrobe with an injured hand – and then paused, glancing back at the title of the book with curiosity.

"What's a Hobbit?" he asked.

"Out," the doctor replied tersely.

* * *

The interview with the Crawfords had not exactly been an unmitigated disaster, but it had certainly felt like one. That is to say, the interview with Thomas and Elizabeth Crawford and Amy Benson had felt like an unmitigated disaster. The interview with Rose Smith had been much less stressful.

It was times like these that Eleanor Cole wished she could just have a nice glass of gin and pretend the world did not exist for a few hours. She couldn't, of course, and she didn't, because she had responsibilities. One of those responsibilities, as it happened, resulted in her pulling aside the doctor – before she could retreat to the infirmary – as soon as dinner had ended.

"What happened?"Martha inquired, studying the matron's careworn and anxious face.

Eleanor pressed her lips together for a moment, as if to steady herself for what she was about to say. "Amy Benson was using her… abilities during the interview," she explained tersely. "It wasn't anything …overt, just little things, things that made them uncomfortable without being sure why. If I hadn't known what those children can do I wouldn't have realised myself. …I do not know if it was intentional, or if it was stress, but if it was intentional …Martha, Tom Riddle was _not happy_ when he learned the Crawfords were interested in her."

She seemed content to leave the rest – the obvious concern that Tom might have put Amy up to using her abilities to scare the Crawfords off – unspoken between them. After all, they both knew what she meant.

Martha almost seemed to wince. "I suppose we shall have to talk with him," she agreed.

They both knew that such a discussion with Tom was likely to become a row and neither of them was particularly looking forward to it. However, when they reached Tom's bedroom they discovered that it would be quite unnecessary to have that row – because there was already a row in progress.

"IT WASN'T CLEVER, AMY, IT WAS STUPID!" Tom bellowed from the other side of the closed door.

Martha paused with one hand extended to the doorknob. It seemed quite pointless to enter when they already had their answer – especially as she could guess from his tone that Tom was likely gesturing wildly and liable to accidentally hit anyone who got too close.

There was what sounded like a sob from within the room. Whatever Amy said after sobbing, however, was too quiet to be heard through the door.

"YOU HAD THE CHANCE TO _GET OUT OF HERE_ AND YOU DIDN'T _TAKE IT!_" Tom screamed, and it was clear to those listening that if he kept going like that he would soon become hoarse and would lose his voice. "HOW STUPID _**ARE**_ YOU?"

"I wanted to s-stay with you!" Amy wailed in response. "I-if I'd g-gone you w-would have b-been unh-unhappy."

Outside of the room, Martha wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"DO YOU THINK I'M HAPPY NOW?" Tom roared, with a distinct note of disbelief in his tone. There was a pause, one which seemed to suggest that the boy had both run out of breath and had begun to realise that he was damaging his voice. "I WANTED YOU TO GET OUT OF THIS PLACE!"

Tom paused again, this time breathing loudly, and the tone of the silence (if there was such a thing) seemed to imply that he himself was shocked by what he had just said.

"You can't base your life on what other people want, Amy!" Tom finally declared, his voice far quieter – almost defeated sounding – than it previously had been. "You've got to do what_ you_ want!"

Martha and Eleanor traded concerned looks.

"MAYBE THAT IS WHAT I WANT!" Amy suddenly shouted back at the boy.

There was the sound of someone stumbling, likely from a shock, then a crash and a cry of pain.

Eleanor reached out, past Martha, and hurriedly opened the door.

Tom, it appeared, had tripped over a book on the floor – a very new book, one which had no doubt been dropped in shock at some point – and landed on his already injured arm.

"Oh, look," the doctor said with unusually blatant sarcasm clear in her falsely pleasant tone, "the orphanage really _is_ a zoo."

Tom groaned.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To Anla'shok:** Glad you liked it – I figured storytelling and speech giving had some pretty similar qualities (like needing to hold the audience's attention) and since we know Tom's fond of the later…

I'm glad to know that Martha was sympathetic this time. As for Amy… when I was originally going to write the whole series I avoided answering questions like that – but since I'm not going to write it anymore I decided to tie up loose ends of that sort in the epilogue and the notes on what would have happened in the rest of the series which I will put up on livejournal (with links in my bio) as soon as I finish the epilogue. So, the short answer is that you'll find out in two chapters time, because the next chapter is the last and then there's just the epilogue.


	58. Special: December 31st, 1937

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N: **This chapter, being the last chapter, is ridiculously short in comparison to most of the others. The epilogue will probably be longer than it. Sorry?

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Eight: Special**

By the time Tom's birthday came along, he and Amy were no longer fighting. Although, technically speaking, since Amy had barely waited an hour – mostly because Tom's arm needed to be re-bandaged and the matron wanted to talk – before throwing herself at Tom and begging him not to be mad at her anymore.

Tom had relented almost immediately, if only because of the look given to him by both of the staff members who had been present. Amy had insisted on further making amends by reading the new book aloud to Tom – an odd reversal of their usual behaviour – so that Tom could rest his arm and voice.

It had not been long after that incident that Mrs. Cole had pulled Tom aside and sternly warned him against taking advantage of little Amy and her trusting, helpful nature. As far as Tom could tell, the matron actually believed that if left alone he would start acting like the parents of many of the other orphans and hit Amy when she did things he didn't like. Tom thought that was ridiculous: for one thing he was too young to drink alcohol and, for another, he seemed to spend more time pandering to Amy's wishes than the other way around. The matron, however, clearly did not see it that way.

Thankfully, however, by the time Tom's birthday had come along, the matron had apparently satisfied herself that Tom was not hurting Amy when no one was looking. Tom really didn't understand where Mrs. Cole got those strange ideas – after all, if Amy wanted to build her life around running after other people: that was _Amy's_ problem.

* * *

"Is there such a thing as an afterlife?" Tom asked, startling the doctor with his sudden appearance in the infirmary.

Doctor Elder, who was already up and dressed in spite of the early hour, quirked an eyebrow at the unusual query presented to her. This year, it seemed, she had been wise enough to get up before Tom could come dashing through and pounce on her in her bed.

"Why do you ask?" she inquired in return.

Tom, who was still sitting in his wardrobe and peering out of the door to the infirmary, shrugged slightly and nearly lost his balance. "Yesterday Oliver Lewis said that because I don't go to church or believe in God I'm evil and I'm going to burn in Hell for all eternity," he replied, sounding somewhere between baffled and cross as he did.

Martha frowned at him. "That kept you up until you asked about it?" she inquired, with a note of disbelief in her tone. "Last I checked that boy could barely tie his own shoelaces let alone speak in complex sentences."

Tom shrugged and toppled out of the wardrobe. After he managed to make his face part ways with the floor, he replied, "It made Amy cry." There was a pause and then he added, "She leaks too much."

"Charming," the doctor stated dryly.

"I also asked Madam Mary yesterday," Tom continued helpfully as he wandered over and sat down in front of Martha's desk, "but she stared at me in horror, burst into tears and left the room."

Doctor Elder paused in her writing for a moment and, although her expression remained blank, there was something in the stillness that suggested she was trying to figure out how much to say. "Mary Stone has been ill," the doctor said finally. "It has had a profound effect on her emotional stability. Do not approach her regarding the matter, she is like to …leak if it is mentioned."

Tom looked at her thoughtfully, evidently aware that there was something more to the matter, but decided not to push for answers. He didn't really like it when people leaked, after all. It was messy and emotional.

Tom nodded and then gave her a wide eyed, expectant, look – as if prompting her to speak her lines in a play.

Martha's lips twitched ever so slightly – had she been anyone else, she might have rolled her eyes – and said, "Happy birthday, Maas."

* * *

It had been some relief to all of the staff that Tom had not decided to give a speech on his birthday as he had the year before. In fact, he was remarkably well behaved the entire morning and the only unusual occurrence was that Doctor Elder and Mrs. Stone had left lunch early, together, after the latter had whispered something somewhat urgent to the former.

Tom assumed that it was because Mary was not feeling well and shrugged it off – it only meant that he would have to wait with his abilities practise and he was well used to the doctor having to postpone their experiments because she had patients.

It was annoying, in Tom's opinion, but of no grave importance – after all, Martha usually made up for the lost time later and often with interesting discussion topics as well. Of course, the majority of the staff didn't think it made much sense to try to explain things – such as the politics of why Italy had withdrawn from the League of Nations – to a little boy, but Tom found it very interesting.

There had also been the matter of Amy dragging him upstairs, as soon as he had finished his lunch, to distract him.

The little girl had proudly presented him with what appeared to be a very poorly made crossword – modelled on those in the newspapers, which Tom enjoyed.

One answer had been his own full name and Tom wasn't exactly sure what he'd done to deserve his only friend using the anagram _Maim Overlord Dolt_ for it. However, when he had mentioned this Amy had hurriedly pulled out a very long list of other anagrams she had made while trying to create the puzzle and when Tom noticed the over-abundance of the words: doormat, vomit, mad, evil, toad, drool, lair, and (oddly) ramrod, he began to think he had been lucky with the one she had chosen.

All of this had, somehow, lead to Tom pinning Amy down on the floor and attempting to think up an anagram of her name which would fit on her forehead. As a result of the limitations of size, Tom had been forced to give up on both _Damageable Winsomely Pennon Peony_ and _Damageable People: None Win Synonym_ – he had therefore decided to ignore her middle names.

The entire matter had resulted in Amy heading down to dinner with the words _Nab My Nose _written in slightly smudged letters on her brow.

The matron had not been impressed with Tom's artwork and had insisted that Amy wash it off or else they would both be sent to bed early.

It was therefore, perhaps, out of a desire to avoid the ire of the matron that Tom and Amy found themselves spending the evening and night of Tom's birthday in the infirmary – accompanied by the doctor, who had excused herself from the New Years Eve party in favour of being where everyone would be able to find her if she was needed.

A surprisingly large number of card games were played as the night wore on and Tom was beginning to think that he could not have hoped for a better birthday.

Shortly before midnight, to Tom's surprise, Doctor Elder took a neatly wrapped parcel out of her desk and placed it gently on the table while Amy had stepped out to go to the loo.

In later years Tom would deny that his hands had trembled at the sight of a large present, but at the time he was too busy carefully unwrapping it to be concerned.

A set of small, leather bound books – stacked neatly on top of each other – became visible as the paper was pulled away.

Tom reached out carefully and examined the topmost book – it was a blank diary, clearly made for the next year, and on closer inspection Tom discovered that the set was entirely comprised of seven diaries (each dated for a different, consecutive, year) and every cover was a different colour. His name had been carefully applied to each and every one.

The eleven year old boy stared up at the doctor in shock. His mouth opened, and closed again, but no sound came out.

Martha almost seemed to smile for a moment. "Harold and Henry Cole still own a shop down the road," she stated. "However, with the current financial situation they are not certain how long they will be able to retain it, so I had the set for the upcoming years specially made as well. It took some calculating to ensure the dates would be correct, however it was no great difficulty."

Tom's hand slowly trailed from spine to spine of the books, from the oddly white cover for 1939 to the deep red of 1940, over the stern blue for 1941, along the brown cover of 1942, the black of 1943, the dark gray of 1944 and the dark brown of 1945. Then he frowned.

"There's a year missing," he stated, confused, unaware of how his brow wrinkled.

Martha idly held up an eighth diary, this one with fawn brown cover; which must have been 1938's, and quirked an eyebrow.

Tom gave her a wry look. "I'm supposed to say thank you to receive that one, right?" he asked, sounding faintly amused.

The doctor looked calmly at him. "The expression of sheer awe on your face was quite enough evidence of your thankfulness," she replied. "You receive this when you promise to use them to accurately record your experimentation and studies in your abilities."

Tom's jaw dropped slightly.

Martha truly did smile – although smirk might have been a more appropriate word – at that. "I think you are now old enough to keep an accurate log yourself," she stated.

Tom smiled at her, content in the knowledge that there was at least one other person in the world who did not think of him as yet one more orphan, nameless and faceless. There was at least one other person in the world who thought Tom was worth something, to whom he was special.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**To JoojooBrother:** I honestly don't mind if people don't leave reviews – if people are enjoying it that's good enough for me. I'm very glad you liked it (especially enough to call it headcanon!) and I hope that the final chapter and epilogue were not too disappointing.

**To Dhelana Joie:** I'm glad you liked the chapter, and the evolution of Tom and Amy's relationship (and the Hobbit). While it won't really be watching their relationship, and thus won't be as interesting, I will have further information about it in the notes I'll put up on livejournal – I'll get them tidied up within a day of posting the epilogue, I promise, and the links will be on my profile ASAP.


	59. Epilogue: September 7th, 1996

**Warnings: **Violence and profanity, WIP (Work In Progress), character deaths, occasional corpses, 1920s-40s attitudes on race, gender, religion, etc. shown in characters that are historically accurate but _may offend modern readers_, large numbers of OCs and, most importantly, historically accurate Coca-Cola does appear in chapters. Please also note that warnings may be subject to additions and the rating to raised alteration as the story progresses, if required or reasonably requested.

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable from the Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and I am neither her, nor making any money off this. The large variety of Original Characters (as the name suggests) do belong to me, but that's all, since the only Coca-Cola I own is in the glass on my table and I have no shares in the company. This makes me sad.

**A/N:** This epilogue refers to some things which I would have fleshed out in future stories – and would thus have acted like a teaser – but since I'm not going to be writing them I've tried to make them as few as possible. Similarly, things I would not have mentioned for the sake of surprise I have now mentioned to give closure for some of the characters.

This story, excluding authors notes, etc, is 208,594 words long. Bloody hell.

Here in New Zealand, it's still forty minutes to midnight, so this is technically going up on Harry Potter's birthday. I'll try to have the notes on what happened in the rest of the series, which I won't be writing, on livejournal as soon as possible and I'll have the links to those lj entries on my profile.

Since I shan't be able to reply to any reviews in further chapters, I'd just like to thank you all for reading and say that I hope you've enjoyed it.

* * *

**Fifty-Nine: Epilogue**

Albus Dumbledore sighed and ran his good hand along the cover of the old, leather bound book on his desk. It had sat on his shelves in his offices for many years, for all intents and purposes just another one of the many scholarly texts that adorned his walls.

On this occasion, however, he had taken it down for the purpose of looking through it one last time before giving it away. He was well aware that the Ministry would be very interested in going through his things once he had passed on and this particular book was one he did not wish them to go through. It was for that reason that he had requested an old student of his, one for whom the book would be of importance, come to retrieve it – although scheduling its retrieval for a mere half hour before Harry was due for his first lesson on Tom Riddle had, he would admit, been pushing the schedule somewhat.

It was a photo album.

"You know," a cheerful voice from behind him intoned, "it's very rude to invite someone over and then not let them in."

The headmaster of Hogwarts turned around in surprise – for, after all, the only door into the office from the rest of the castle was in front of him, not behind.

A pale figure sat on the windowsill – although lounged might have been a better term – having, surely, come in through the window. The man was young – alarmingly young, once one recognised him – and everything from his brightly plumed hat to his frock coat and even his boots implied a pirate from centuries gone by.

Albus Dumbledore blinked. "Abraxas Malfoy – I thought you'd died of Dragon Pox," he murmured.

The man in question grinned. "That I did," he replied, as cheerful as ever. "However," he added, dropping out of the windowsill, "now that I _am_ dead, and no, I shan't be telling you how I got around _that _so let's just say it had something to do with muggle technology, a dare from Eileen and a particularly famous sheep, I can go ahead and devote my life to piracy without adversely affecting my son."

Albus' lips twitched slightly, although this was partially hidden by his long beard. "Oddly enough," the elder man said, "I do not recall inviting you at all."

"Of course not," Abraxas replied, still remarkably cheerful, "but you couldn't pass it to Eileen through Severus because she's still not talking to you over the whole 'turn her son into a spy' routine, you couldn't have passed it up through Carmine's boy – Blaise, innit – or my Draco because then it would get around: little ones can be so curious, after all. You asked Carmine or Ina to come …but both Carmine Zabini and his little Carmina are back off in Italy being Mafiosi, the, erm, charming Miss Whittle didn't think she could handle taking the album without winding up following in your brother's footsteps and breaking your nose and – o' course – inviting an insane evil overlord in wouldn't have been a good idea." Then, with surprising and alarming grace for a man who was supposed to be both elderly and dead, Abraxas launched himself into the air in a back flip and landed on the headmaster's desk. "So I'm afraid you'll be handing the treasure o'er to me, you scurvy cur!" he declared in delight, brandishing what appeared to be a very real, very sharp cutlass.

The majority of the previous headmasters and headmistresses on the walls were loudly exclaiming in shock and anger at such disrespect and bizarre behaviour, but Albus Dumbledore merely leaned back in his chair with an amused expression on his face. Abraxas was so unlike his son – Lucius had always been such a cool, reserved boy. His father was a right clown.

"I remember Horace saying you'd decided to be a pirate after your Careers Consultation – I hadn't realized you had yet to give up the dream," Dumbledore said mildly, thus calming (or, perhaps, shocking into silence) the various portraits that hung above his bookshelves.

Abraxas chuckled and tossed a boyish grin over his shoulder at the portraits. "I told him I was going to be a pirate – and that is what I am off to be – where as Carmine Zabini said he would be taking over the family business: sure enough, he's Mafiosi," the peculiar Malfoy replied. "Elieen wanted to study muggle behaviour – she married that idiot Snape and got more than she asked for, Ina said she didn't need a job because her father would take over the world for her …okay, that didn't exactly happen, but her family control all the basic products like metals and woods so they sort of do control the world… and Tom said he was going to take over the world: look at him now. Then Old Sluggy went to the staff room to have a strong drink."

Finally, Abraxas paused to breathe again and then, peering down at the headmaster as he did, declared, "We were probably the most honest group he ever had, yet everyone assumed we were either lying or joking!"

"Indeed," Albus replied mildly. "Perhaps you would care to use the floor?"

Abraxas blinked owlishly at him for a moment, then looked at where his feet were, murmured something that might have been "Oh", and practically bounced back off the desk.

To anyone who had only met Abraxas' decedents it would have been a shocking display, but the aged headmaster remembered quite well how Abraxas had dashed about the halls as a student playing at being a pirate (which had become all the worse when he was made Quidditch Captain for Slytherin and stopped answering to anything other than Captain Brax – which made it somewhat more alarming that he was considered to be one of the saner of the …allies Tom had during his school years).

One of the portraits sniffed. "I wouldn't call you honest," the painted man said. "Not after hearing about your involvement in that plot to remove that Muggle-born Minister."

"OH FOR–", Abraxas began at a roar, but cut himself off suddenly. "There was no plot – except in your bloody imaginations! I LIKED NOBBY LEACH!" he continued yelling: clearly both angered and exasperated. "ALL I SAID WAS 'I WONDER IF YOU CAN FIT THAT UP YOUR NOSE' – IT WASN'T MY FAULT HE TRIED!"

Albus tried not to choke on his laughter at that. When one considered that most interactions between Abraxas and his son included the words "Father, stop it: you're embarrassing me!" the living headmaster could easily imagine that Abraxas was, for once, as innocent as he claimed to be.

Headmaster Dumbledore coughed slightly and the would-be pirate whirled around to face him.

It seemed, however, that Abraxas saw something in the blue eyed gaze he met that caused him to cease the cheerful, eccentric behaviour which he so enjoyed confusing people with in favour of a more solemn, serious attitude. He walked over to the desk and gently placed a hand on the old leather photo album.

"I suppose we owe you one, old man," Abraxas said simply, patting the cover of the album slightly as he did. "If you hadn't been a bit …photo happy in those years we wouldn't have had most of these."

Albus Dumbledore smiled sadly at him and replied, "You allowed me to have copies of every photograph taken: that was quite enough."

Abraxas idly flipped open the cover.

The very first page was a wide group image, dated December 1943. Tom Riddle, not quite seventeen, stood tall in the centre, with the troupe he'd called his allies rather than his friends (and whom, in spite of the terminology, had fared far better than Avery, Lestrange and all those followers Tom had termed his 'friends').

Above the photograph someone – possibly Dumbledore himself – had written in an elegant hand: _Captain Brax, The Princess, Lord Voldemort, Lady Grendel, The Don, Obligatory Younger Sister-Puff_. Abraxas smirked at the sight of the old set of nicknames.

To Tom's immediate left had been the round-faced, scatterbrained Ina Whittle – who most assumed was only tolerated due to her family's monopoly in many base material industries – and her long black curls fluttered messily in the wind. Whereas on his immediate right was the skinny, pale, sullen faced Eileen Prince staring haughtily out at them.

Abraxas Malfoy himself stood to Eileen's right, with his near white locks fluttering in the breeze. Opposite to him, on the left of Ina Whittle, Carmine Zabini – the young Italian immigrant – smirked out at the camera from beneath his beloved fedora.

For all that the image of the young, bright, faces saddened both men looking upon them, it was undeniable that Albus Dumbledore's attention was focused on the cheerful, smiling face of the blonde girl sitting in front of Tom – with his hands on her shoulders and her Hufflepuff house scarf blowing sideways like the hair of those with longer locks.

Thirteen year old Amy Benson waved up at them, waving happily. The photograph had been taken mere days before she'd been killed.

Albus Dumbledore sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair.

"It wasn't your fault," Abraxas offered, surprisingly serious.

Albus glanced sideways up at him, almost as if to say 'oh, really,' in a most sarcastic manner.

Abraxas winced and shrugged awkwardly. "Grindelwald let slip that he would be attacking the train when everyone was heading out for the holidays," he explained. "One student dead was pretty impressive when it was just a handful of us against his army at the castle until backup got there ...especially considering the whole 'berserker' bit after your old flame took out Benson." After a pause he added, in a tone of strained cheer and peculiar thoughtfulness, "Besides, if Tom hadn't led the defence then he probably would have tried attacking during the last war."

It was almost as if in answer, though that would have been a non sequitur, that Albus turned to the next page.

The two photographs, side by side, were each of a pair of people – headboy and girl Tom Riddle and Ina Whittle in the left image, young Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore in the other. Due to the positioning of the photographs, Whittle and Grindelwald were practically next to each other and positioned thus the similarity of the curled hair (one black, one blond) and the cheerful, wild faces was unmistakable.

Abraxas winced. "I suppose that still rubs you the wrong way," he mumbled, quickly flipping to the next page.

The next photograph, however, was not much better when it came to diffusing solemn moments, for the still image of Doctor Martha Elder looked out at them quite solemnly.

"Sometimes," Albus admitted, sounding tired, "I think it is reproach I see in her eyes."

Abraxas snorted at the flight of fancy (which one could argue was rather hypocritical of him). "Please," he sneered. "It wasn't your fault that Dippet ordered all the students home for the Christmas holidays to do security repairs without considering that maybe the sheer number of worried muggle-born students saying it wasn't safe to go to Kings Cross Station with the muggle war on meant something."

The portrait of Armando Dippet sniffed, irritated.

Surprisingly, Abraxas Malfoy folded his arms crossly and turned to look up at the portrait. "Yes, if the old codger had tried to hear Tom's side instead of just assuming the matron was absolutely impartial and truthful before it was too late – until Tom was so used to said codger being suspicious of him that trying to help came across as …how did he put it… oh, yes 'keeping an annoyingly close watch on me', I shan't deny that," Abraxas snapped. "Yes, Tom was already very seriously messed up by the time he got to Hogwarts, but you _can't_ send a bunch of children into a warzone and then wonder why seeing they come back _**shell shocked**__ regardless of whether or not one of their loved ones got killed trying to protect them!_"

In his frame, Dippet recoiled slightly at the sudden outburst. Then he sighed, tiredly. "I did not think that muggle weapons could cause so much damage," the elderly image admitted quietly.

Abraxas sighed, seeming to deflate slightly and unintentionally making the feathers on his hat flutter. "My family don't deal with muggles," he said, "but when Tom came back babbling about how his doctor was dead and how the muggles were going to destroy the world with their highly advanced weaponry _I paid attention_. My son didn't, he didn't have to: Tom'd changed his political platform by then, but I paid attention."

Dippet sighed again and murmured, "And?"

"Atomic Bomb," Abraxas replied.

Dumbledore and Dippet winced in unison.

Abraxas, as if he was aware that he had shocked quite enough people already, idly flipped to the next page in the photo album and paused – the one shocked for a change – when he saw that the photo was of Tom, when still just an ickle firsty, fast asleep in the library: with his face buried in a book.

The Malfoy turned to the living headmaster in surprise. "You actually cared about him," the would-be pirate stated, nonplussed.

Dumbledore chuckled, although there was a sorrowful quality underlying the sound, and said, "He reminded me of myself."

Abraxas blinked, surprised. "I'd have thought he'd reminded you of Grindelwald," he replied.

Albus sighed again. "Tom and Gellert were both impulsive and outgoing – but Tom favoured rationality, as I did. For all that he was a hardened killer, Gellert was the softer and more emotional of us …it is Harry who reminds me most of Gellert, although Harry is not such a diva as Gellert."

Abraxas laughed at that. "Yet you're going to portray Tom as a heartless monster from start to finish," he said bitterly as his laughter faded. "Even though you 'cared' about him and you know no one is born evil. Even though it'll be giving all your prejudiced Lions all the 'proof' they need to keep assuming all Slytherins are evil. It might take another fifty years, but there'll be another war – or worse your lot will get so self-righteous that they'll just decide to _get rid of_ the Slytherins altogether."

Abraxas scowled as he closed the photo album and sneered, "That's not exactly conducive to the _Greater Good_, Al."

There was a very distinct pause, in which many of the portraits' eyebrows shot up to their hairlines (if they had one) and Albus Dumbledore could be seen to mouth 'Al' in surprise.

The moment of misplaced humour, however, dissipated soon after as the headmaster tiredly replied, "In this case… it is not the greater good I am considering and I have made the choice, for once, not to. To put the feelings of someone I care for first."

Abraxas paused in picking up the photo album and curiously inquired, "Potter?"

Dumbledore pressed his lips together for a moment, looking seriously at his old student. "He's a sensitive boy," the headmaster finally said. "If I taught him about Tom as he really was, how similar and human they were… I do not doubt that Harry would still do what needs to be done, but it would haunt him for the rest of his life. I do not want him to spend his life wondering _'what if'_."

Abraxas bit back a smart remark as the headmaster trailed off, sounding choked with emotion.

Albus indubitably noticed this, though, for he smiled sadly at the other man and it was clear his eyes were beginning to water from sheer emotion. "So you see," he said simply, "I am aware that I may be causing a great deal of damage to future generations who have done nothing to deserve it by portraying him – portraying his house – this way, but I do so anyway: because I care about him too much."

Abraxas nodded slightly to himself a few times, then tucked the photo album under one arm and turned to go to the window. When he reached it, however, he paused and turned back to look at the headmaster.

Albus Dumbledore raised a thick, white eyebrow.

"Lucius is a big boy now and can make his own decisions," Abraxas said, adjusting his feathered hat, "but if anything happens to Draco you'll wish I was dead."

That, at least, got Dumbledore to smile slightly.

Then, with a grin, the late Abraxas Malfoy lauched himself out of the tower window with an exclamation that sounded alarmingly cheerful.

A few moments later Albus Dumbledore heard footsteps approaching outside and a knock at the door. He wiped his eyes quickly, plastered a smile on his face and called, "Come in, Harry."


End file.
